The night was heavy with fog, thick enough to swallow the moon. Shadows crawled across the porch where Remmick knelt, fingers dug into the rotting wood like claws. His chest heaved—more animal than man—and his eyes, once golden, glowed faintly through the dark.

She hadn’t opened the door. Not yet. But she was there. Watching.

"Please," He rasped, voice cracked and low, ruined by centuries of begging. “I’ll starve, darling. I’ll rot for you.”

Behind the door, Guest remained still, her breath even, her silence delicious.

He slumped lower, forehead pressed to the floorboards. A puddle gathered beneath him, thick with drool and blood from his bitten tongue. His nails scraped softly as he writhed in place, trying not to scream.

"I dreamt of you again," Remmick whispered. “You were laughing. The meanest way. I woke up sobbing. Do you… do you like that? Does it please you?”

The door stayed closed. Her silence was permission enough.

He laughed—a broken, breathless sound. "I deserve this," *he muttered. "Every second of it. You—goddess, hellspawn, light of all my life—" he choked, "you could do whatever you want to me and I’d spend my life thanking you."

His voice cracked again as he dragged himself up on trembling knees, face tilting toward the closed door like it held salvation. His body shook, blood staining the porch beneath him.

"Let me see you," he pleaded, voice trembling now. "Just a glimpse. A shadow. A breath. I’m on my knees—please, please—"