BENEATH CRIMSON VEINS

Chapter One – The Stranger in the Rain The rain was relentless that night—thick, heavy drops drumming against the café windows like impatient fingers. It had been pouring for hours, and the world outside looked blurred, smeared in shades of gray and silver. Inside, the café lights flickered softly, warm and golden, like tiny candles trying to keep the night at bay. I should have gone home an hour ago. My shift ended at eight, but something in me didn’t want to leave. The streets felt wrong tonight—too quiet, too watchful. It’s just the storm, I told myself. You’re imagining things again. I wiped down another table, the rag squeaking faintly against the surface. The smell of coffee lingered in the air—sweet, burnt, comforting. The last customer had left fifteen minutes ago, and only the sound of the rain and the distant hum of the fridge kept me company. Then the bell over the door chimed. A gust of cold air swept in, along with him. He didn’t rush in the way most people do when it rains. He walked in slowly, like he wasn’t escaping the storm at all but bringing it with him. Tall. Dark coat, soaked at the edges but somehow still elegant. His presence filled the room instantly, pressing against the quiet like gravity had just shifted. And his eyes— Black, deep, and unreadable—met mine. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. He didn’t look like anyone I’d ever seen around here. There was something out of place about him, something that didn’t belong in this small corner of the city. Maybe it was the way he moved—controlled, deliberate—or the faint stillness that followed him, as if even the storm outside paused to notice. “Sorry,” I said automatically, voice catching a little. “We’re closed.” His lips curved—not quite a smile, more like the idea of one. “Then I suppose I’m late.” His voice was low, velvety, with an accent I couldn’t place. Somewhere European, maybe. Old-world. Refined. He didn’t sit down right away. Instead, his gaze drifted slowly across the café—over the empty chairs, the faint steam still curling from the espresso machine, the rain pooling by the door—and then back to me. “I didn’t come for coffee,” he said finally. Something about the way he said it sent a chill down my spine. I tried to laugh it off, wiping my damp hands on my apron. “Then what did you come for?” He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “You.” The word hit like a drop of ice water. I froze. You? My heart stuttered once, hard, like it had missed a beat. I forced a small, nervous laugh. “Okay… that’s a little creepy.” “Forgive me.” He stepped closer, and for a heartbeat, the overhead lights flickered. “I didn’t mean it that way.” “Then how did you mean it?” He hesitated. I noticed his coat didn’t seem to drip anymore, though he’d come in straight from the downpour. His skin—pale, flawless—caught the light strangely, almost like moonlight clinging to him. And yet, there was warmth in his eyes. Not human warmth, but something else. Something dangerous. He’s just some guy, Lena. A strange guy, sure, but harmless. Probably. I took a step back anyway. “You look like someone I used to know,” he said softly. “A long time ago.” There it was again—that faint accent, that way of speaking like every word had weight. I tried to shake off the unease prickling at the back of my neck. “Well,” I said, trying to sound casual, “you’ve got the wrong person. I’m sure of it.” “I’m sure too,” he murmured. “But sometimes the wrong person is the one you’re meant to find.” The way he said it—it didn’t sound flirtatious. It sounded sad. Haunted. Outside, thunder cracked, lighting up the windows for an instant. For that flash of light, I saw his reflection—or rather, I didn’t. The mirror behind him showed only the empty door. The rag slipped from my hand. When the thunder faded, he was suddenly standing right in front of me—close enough that I could see the tiny flecks of silver in his dark eyes. Close enough to hear the soft intake of his breath. I stumbled back, heart racing. “Okay—whoa, you need to—” “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice was low again, calmer now, almost apologetic. “It’s… been a while since I spoke to someone.” Spoke to someone? Who talks like that? My hand brushed against the counter, grounding myself. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I really think you should go.” For a moment, neither of us moved. The air felt thick, charged. He looked at me like he wanted to say something—something important—but then his expression changed. His jaw tightened. His gaze flicked toward the door, like he’d sensed something outside that I couldn’t. Then, quietly, he said, “You should lock your door when you close this place. There are worse things than storms.” Before I could answer, the bell chimed again—and he was gone. Just gone. No sound, no motion. One blink and the space he’d occupied was empty. I rushed to the door, yanking it open, but there was nothing. Just rain, slanting in silver sheets across the street. No figure in sight. No footsteps. Not even the echo of one. A cold shiver ran down my arms. I closed the door, locked it, and leaned against the counter, heart still thundering. What the hell was that? His scent still lingered faintly in the air—something sharp and earthy, like rain on stone and smoke. And then, when I glanced toward the floor, I noticed a single dark rose lying where he’d stood. Fresh. Perfect. Dry. My hand trembled as I reached down to pick it up. The petals were soft against my fingertips, and when I turned it slightly under the light, I saw a drop of red at its stem—not water. Blood. The lights flickered once more, and for the briefest second, I thought I heard his voice—distant, like a whisper through the storm. > “You shouldn’t have stayed.”