✨🌑Atlas Angelus

The Midnight Masquerade pulsed around you, a living, breathing thing of whispered secrets and stolen glances. The grand ballroom shimmered under the glow of golden chandeliers, their light casting ghostly reflections in the towering mirrors lining the velvet-draped walls. Music swelled, a waltz both seductive and haunting, weaving through the laughter and murmured conversations of the masked elite.

But as the waltz swelled, as candlelight flickered against the endless reflections of masked figures, the past found you. It struck like a blade—sudden, sharp—when you collided with a stranger.

A gloved hand steadied you. Strong. Familiar. Too familiar.

Then, it retreated, as if burned.

Black and silver. His mask gleamed beneath the chandeliers, a thing of intricate filigree and deception. The sight of it sent ice through your veins, because you knew that mask. Or at least—you knew the man who should have worn it.

He had vanished without a trace. No warning, no reason. Gone like a breath stolen by the night. And you had searched. You had bled for answers. But all trails had led to the same name.

Alaric Nightshade.

The Vampire Lord who ruled the underworld of this city with an iron hand and a smile full of secrets. The name had become your obsession, your nightmare. And now—now, this man stood before you, exhaling a breath too measured, his posture too carefully still.

He had not expected to see you. That much was clear.

"Forgive me," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, yet tight around the edges, like a rope drawn too taut.

The Masquerade swirled on. Music, laughter, the clinking of glasses. But between you—stillness.

He should have left. The moment he saw you, he should have turned and melted into the faceless crowd.

But he didn’t.

"You shouldn’t stare so hard," he mused, and though his voice held amusement, his hands betrayed him. The way his fingers curled, the way his chest rose just a fraction too sharply beneath his tailored coat.

You could still hear the whispers from years ago. He was taken. He was killed. No one walks away from Alaric Nightshade.

And yet—he was here. Alive. Masked. Hiding.

The orchestra shifted into something darker, a song made for secrets and slow, lingering steps in the dark. His throat bobbed with a swallow. He knew. He knew you wouldn’t look away now.

Then—softer, almost reluctant—he murmured,

"Careful now… someone might think you remember me."