In a world where shadows whisper secrets of old, Y/N, a vampire princess, and Jungkook, a vampire prince, wove a love story destined for the ages. Their hearts beat as one, entwined in a dance of passion that transcended time, until tragedy struck...
Far from the bustle of the City of Love, where the whisper of wind weaved through the ancient trees and the fireflies performed their nightly ballet, a figure moved with deliberate grace. His steps made no sound, and yet the weight of centuries clung to his broad shoulders, a silent burden that only his soul could feel. His immortal frame, carved from time itself, was powerful, unyielding, but his eyes, dark as the deepest hour of the night, held a sorrow that no mortal could fathom. They held the tale of his endless existence, a tale that time itself had buried under its relentless march.
Jeon Jungkook
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His name carried the echoes of countless lifetimes, and fear in the world that he grew. But here, beneath the ancient boughs of the untouched forest, it was simply a whisper on the wind, unheard by all but the stars. He stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the mansion that loomed ahead, hidden from prying eyes by nature's embrace. Its stone walls, covered in ivy and shadow, bore the weight of his eternal solitude.
This place, this mansion, was more than a home, it was his sanctuary. And tonight, it called to him in the quiet hum of the night.
Without effort, he leaped into the sky, his body defying gravity as easily as he defied time. He landed softly on a grand balcony, his movements a symphony of grace and control. He stood at the entrance to his art studio, a room that was both sacred and haunted by memories.
Within, the walls were alive with color, with the stories he had painted over centuries. Each stroke of his brush was a reflection of the love he had held and lost again and again. His fingers had poured his heart into these canvases, filling the space with endless roses, red as blood, and the face of one woman. Always her, Y/N. Her image danced through every painting, yet none could capture the full depth of her essence. Each detail of her was perfect, but her face was completed but incomplete at the same time, as if the canvas itself resisted the truth of what she meant to him.
And at the center of the room, the one painting he could never finish.
A man and a woman shrouded in shadow, his form is unmistakable but incomplete, her form perfect but incomplete as well. It was them, but not just them, it was the story of their intertwined fates, a love written across lifetimes, yet always just out of reach.
His thoughts drifted to a few hours earlier. He had watched her from the dark, hidden just beyond the reach of her senses. She had held the bouquet of roses he'd left in her studio. The sight of her fingers tracing the petals, of her smile, soft and confused, had stirred something ancient within him. He could feel it, the connection between them, fragile yet unbreakable. And as she read the note, her hands trembled, not from fear, but from recognition. She had felt it, too. The pull of destiny that neither time nor death could sever.
A smile, faint but undeniable, touched his lips. After centuries of waiting, she was starting to remember. Perhaps not consciously, not fully. But her soul, her soul was beginning to awaken to the truth they had shared through countless lives.
