Alternative Europe, Paris, late 19th century

There were things here that were not meant to be discussed over polite dinners. The secrets of old aristocratic houses, mysterious disappearances, strange deaths, and creatures that had lived among humans for centuries, while the latter considered themselves the masters of this world. Most preferred to dismiss such stories as superstition. Étienne de Sombreuil had long since stopped caring about what people believed.

He had lived long enough to witness entire generations come and go, royal dynasties fade away, and once-powerful families become little more than barely distinguishable entries in old archives. He had seen cities that no longer existed, carried names forgotten even by those who had once spoken them with reverence, and watched humanity repeat the same mistakes over and over again, sincerely convinced of its own exceptionalism.

Eternity, as it turned out, was far less grand than people made it out to be.

The first decades of immortality had seemed like an endless celebration. The world offered too many possibilities to grow bored: new cities, new acquaintances, political intrigues, fine wines, and sophisticated amusements. However, over time, even the rarest pleasures began to lose their appeal. People became predictable, conversations monotonous, and social evenings turned into a succession of identical faces, smiles, and attempts to impress.

Human voices were particularly troublesome.

His hearing, far more sensitive than that of any mortal, had become one of the most irritating reminders of his nature. Where people heard an ordinary conversation, he could distinguish every breath, the slightest change in intonation, and unpleasant undertones that most simply failed to notice. Laughter from the next table could sound deafening, a companion's bright voice nauseatingly shrill, and the endless chatter of society ladies made him want to leave the room before anyone could finish another story.

That was why Étienne valued silence.

He chose secluded rooms, preferred quiet conversations, and often disappeared from receptions long before the other guests began to leave. Even music, which had once brought him genuine pleasure, had gradually become another source of irritation. Most performers seemed too loud, too eager, or too enamoured with their own talent.

And yet, he continued to attend the opera.

Perhaps out of habit. Perhaps because, even after centuries, he could not entirely abandon the memories of a time when music had still been capable of stirring something in him beyond polite indifference.

And then he heard you.

It hadn't happened yesterday, or even a few weeks ago. Étienne had been attending your performances for quite some time, so long that the theatre staff had grown accustomed to his presence. He occupied the same box, arrived shortly before the performance began, and almost always stayed until the very end. Sometimes, he attended the same production several times in a row, as though hoping to discover something new in a familiar melody.

Of course, he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for it: your voice didn't irritate him.

To most people, this would have seemed like an insignificant peculiarity, hardly worth paying attention to. To Étienne, however, it was a genuine rarity. For the first time in a long while, he could listen to a human voice without feeling the urge to distance himself from its source. Your notes didn't grate on his ears, sound excessively sharp, or force him to count the minutes until the performance ended. On the contrary, he found himself wanting to listen longer.

At first, it was simple curiosity. He returned to make sure his first impression hadn't been a figment of his imagination. Then he began to recognise the peculiarities of your performance, remember your favourite roles, and notice the slightest changes in familiar melodies. Gradually, he learned to recognise your voice from the very first notes, even when he was distracted by conversations in the foyer or lost in his own thoughts.

At some point, Étienne stopped looking for an explanation. He simply kept coming back.

Over time, his presence became part of the theatre's familiar scenery. Some members of the audience recognised him, while others whispered among themselves, trying to figure out who this mysterious aristocrat was, the one who invariably appeared at every one of your performances. The theatre staff already knew which seat to prepare for him, and the manager had once even allowed himself to joke about his devotion to the arts.

Étienne had responded to the remark with his usual unruffled smile. "Everyone has their weaknesses, monsieur. It would be impolite to expect me to be an exception."

He had said it so casually that his companion laughed, taking the words for another witty remark made in polite company. Étienne himself preferred not to dwell on just how true they had been.

That evening, the theatre was packed. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, their light reflecting off the gilded balconies and tall mirrors. Ladies in luxurious gowns occupied the boxes, gentlemen exchanged greetings, and servants carrying trays moved ceaselessly between the rows of seats. The air was saturated with the scents of expensive perfume, powder, wine, and flowers brought for the audience's favourite performers.

Étienne arrived shortly before the third bell. He wore an impeccably tailored dark suit. Silver hair framed his face neatly, and his expression remained so composed that it might have seemed almost lifeless. A small beauty mark beneath his right eye lent his appearance a subtle touch of distinction. His right hand was habitually concealed by a black glove.

Several familiar aristocrats greeted him, and Étienne returned their greetings with the appropriate courtesy. One man attempted to strike up a conversation about recent political developments, while another mentioned an upcoming reception at a country estate. Étienne listened to both, offered a few suitable remarks, and made his way to his usual box at the first opportunity.

There were only a few minutes left before the performance. When the lights dimmed, the auditorium gradually fell silent. The orchestra began the opening notes, and the heavy curtain slowly rose, revealing the scenery of an ancient palace. Étienne leaned back in his chair, prepared to spend another evening in his usual tranquillity.

He knew this production. He knew the sequence of scenes, the familiar melodies, and even the moments when the audience usually began to whisper. None of it bothered him. He hadn't come here for surprises.

He had come for you.

When you appeared on stage, his gaze settled on your figure as it always did. There was none of the initial surprise he had experienced during your first performance. By now, he already knew what to expect from your voice, and yet he found pleasure in hearing it again every time.

Étienne tilted his head slightly, listening to the first notes. This time, he made no attempt to analyse his own reaction. He simply allowed the music to fill the silence he treasured and, for a few minutes, forgot about the noisy world beyond the theatre.

Perhaps that was what irritated him most. He disliked habits he couldn't rationally explain. He disliked anything that occupied his thoughts longer than it should. And he certainly disliked discovering that he had begun to look forward to a particular evening, a particular performance, and a particular voice belonging to a particular person.

Nevertheless, he kept coming back. And, what was worse, he began to notice more than just your performance.

He remembered which roles came most naturally to you, which melodies earned the loudest applause, and the moments when you allowed your gaze to linger on the audience. He noticed when the crowd rose to its feet after a particularly successful performance, and when someone among the spectators tried to attract your attention with flowers.

These details were of no importance. At least, that was what he told himself.

As the performance drew to a close, Étienne already knew which aria would be the last. He had heard it so many times that he could reproduce the melody from memory, without needing either the orchestra or the performer. Yet when the long-awaited moment arrived, he straightened in his chair once more.

The final aria always left a particular impression on him. Not because it was the most difficult or the most beautiful. Simply because it was during this aria that he could hear your voice without unnecessary distractions, focusing on every change in intonation.

The final notes gradually faded. For a moment, silence settled over the theatre, and then the auditorium erupted into applause. The spectators rose from their seats, someone shouted words of praise, and several ladies in the neighbouring box began discussing the performance animatedly.

Étienne winced at the sudden noise but did not take his eyes off the stage. He rose with the others and began to applaud. Restrainedly, without excessive enthusiasm, as always. However, this time, he made no move to sit back down.

When the curtain finally fell, the vampire continued to gaze at the closed stage for a few more seconds. "Quelle curiosité," he murmured softly. "What a curious habit."

He was referring to his own. For even after so many performances, he still couldn't understand why he wanted to return, when he had grown accustomed to treating even the most extraordinary events with indifference.

Étienne left his box and headed towards the exit, but this time, he had no intention of going straight home. In his jacket pocket lay a small letter he had written several days earlier. He had spent a long time considering its contents, revised the wording several times, and eventually left only what was necessary.

Nothing excessively personal. No confessions. No hints that might put you in an uncomfortable position. Merely a polite request for a brief meeting.

He could have made your acquaintance long ago. Given his position, it would hardly have been difficult. All he had to do was approach the theatre manager, ask to be introduced to you, or take advantage of one of the many social events where you might have happened to be present at the same time.

But Étienne had never been in a hurry. He enjoyed remaining an observer, keeping his distance, and avoiding interference in other people's lives unless necessary. Besides, he wasn't certain that an ordinary acquaintance would bring him more pleasure than the familiar opportunity to listen to you from his seat in the auditorium.

Lately, however, that thought had begun to change. He wanted to know what your voice sounded like away from the stage. He wanted to understand whether it differed from the one he heard from his box. He wanted to know how it sounded when you were overcome by different emotions, from joy to anger and grief.

It was curiosity. Nothing but curiosity, of course.

Étienne stopped beside one of the tall windows and took out the letter, checking his handwriting one last time. The cream-coloured paper, elegant lines, and neat signature looked respectable enough. He saw no reason for concern.

All that remained was to deliver it to its intended recipient. He called over a passing servant and handed him the envelope. "Would you be so kind as to deliver this to mademoiselle? And please, make certain it reaches her personally."

The servant nodded and hurried away. Étienne watched him go before slowly exhaling.

"Mon Dieu," he murmured, smiling faintly. "I'm beginning to behave like one of those young men who can't seem to endure their own infatuation without making a fuss over it." He shook his head.

No. He wasn't in love or obsessed. He wasn't even certain he was capable of feeling anything of the sort after so many years of existence. He had simply grown tired of observing from a distance and decided that it was time to satisfy his curiosity. Nothing more.

On the evening of your next performance, Étienne arrived earlier than usual.

He did not take his customary seat in the box. Instead, he spent some time in the foyer, observing the visitors and listening to snippets of conversation until the noise became irritating enough for him to retreat towards one of the tall windows.

The rain had stopped, leaving thin trails of water on the glass, and the streets beyond the theatre were gradually sinking into twilight.

Étienne checked his watch. Then he adjusted the black glove on his right hand.

For a moment, a faint dark outline appeared beneath the fabric. He froze, looked at his palm, and slowly curled his fingers. The strange symbols had begun appearing several years ago. At first, he had paid them little attention, assuming they were a temporary anomaly that would disappear as suddenly as they had emerged. However, the markings had become increasingly distinct, and their origins remained a mystery to him.

He disliked mysteries he couldn't solve. But he had other matters to attend to now.

When the performance ended, Étienne headed towards the exit leading to the theatre's backstage area. He did not demand to be escorted backstage or use his position to disregard the rules. Instead, he stopped away from the passage, where his presence would not obstruct the staff, and began to wait.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before footsteps and voices in the corridor caught his attention. Étienne straightened, adjusted his cuff, and glanced at his watch one last time.

Then he saw you.

He recognised you instantly, even though there was no stage, footlights, or distance between you that usually separated performers from their audience. You were close enough for him to finally see you without theatrical lighting and scenery.

For a moment, Étienne froze. It was strange. Utterly ridiculous. He had lived for nearly three centuries, seen kings and criminals, spoken to people whose names had long since become history, and endured events that would have driven most mortals to madness.

And yet here he stood in a theatre corridor, searching for the right words to introduce himself to a woman whose performances he had been attending for quite some time.

He quietly chuckled at the absurdity of it all. "J’aurais dû préparer un petit discours à l’avance," he murmured in French. "Quelle humiliation."

Of course, he had no intention of admitting that aloud. As the distance between you narrowed, the vampire inclined his head in a polite greeting. A calm, barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips.

"Mademoiselle," he said in a soft, velvety voice. "At last, I've been given the opportunity to thank you in person."

His gaze lingered on your face for a moment.

"I presume you're already accustomed to seeing me in the audience. I'm afraid I've become rather a predictable guest." A hint of amusement entered his voice.

"Étienne de Sombreuil. At your service." he extended his hand in greeting, maintaining his impeccable courtesy.

"And before you decide that I'm one of those admirers who cannot distinguish an appreciation for art from an obsession, allow me to assure you that I'm perfectly aware of how frequently I attend your performances." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"Your voice simply possesses a rather rare quality. It makes me come back. And believe me, mademoiselle, very few things have compelled me to do the same thing with such consistency over the past few centuries." He fell silent, watching your reaction attentively. A slip of the tongue, intentional or merely hyperbolic. His words were not an outright confession, more of a rather silly joke, but neither was he going to conceal his obvious fascination with your voice. He truly had returned again and again. He truly had listened to every one of your performances. And he had indeed discovered that he now wanted to learn more than a single musical performance could possibly reveal.

"I hope you don't object to a little conversation?" he asked at last. "I promise not to take up too much of your time."

Paris, late 19th century.

The private club was concealed behind the respectable facade of an elegant city mansion. Its entrance was inconspicuous enough not to attract the attention of random passersby. There were no signs above the door, no advertisements appeared in the newspapers, and invitations were not sent to just anyone. Membership was reserved exclusively for the aristocracy, wealthy patrons, and a select circle of people whose secrets were often worth more than their fortunes.

Beyond its doors, Paris revealed an entirely different side of its life.

The club's halls were illuminated by exquisite chandeliers, their warm light reflected in polished mahogany, gilded mirrors, and dark green velvet. The air was filled with a mixture of expensive cigars, aged wine, and perfumes whose scents lingered long after their wearers had passed by. Quiet conversations filled the lounges, occasionally interrupted by booming laughter or the clinking of crystal glasses. In one corner, a pianist played a familiar melody while several guests discussed politics with the seriousness of people convinced that the fate of the entire world depended on their opinions.

Farther inside, beyond a pair of massive doors, lay the gaming rooms.

The atmosphere here was entirely different. Conversations grew quieter, smiles became more calculated, and the sums changing hands were enough to purchase entire estates. Men in impeccable suits and women in luxurious evening gowns gathered around tables covered in green felt. Their attention was fixed on the cards, chips, and expressions of their opponents. Some came to display their wealth, others to indulge their appetite for gambling, and a few simply enjoyed the peculiar thrill that arose when something valuable was at stake.

Étienne de Sombreuil belonged to the last category. Naturally, he had little need for money. Over several centuries of existence, he had accumulated enough wealth to afford practically any whim. His interest in gambling had never been about the possibility of winning a fortune. Money was merely a means, and victory was a predictable outcome when one knew when to bluff and when to let an opponent believe in their own superiority.

The real pleasure lay in people. In their vanity, greed, and inability to conceal their true intentions. In the barely perceptible tension in their fingers when a substantial sum was at stake, in their hurried glances at their cards, and in the smiles that appeared too soon. Étienne enjoyed watching how quickly impeccable manners gave way to a person's true character once they believed they might lose something important.

And yet, lately, even poker had ceased to bring him the same pleasure it once had.

Too many opponents were predictable. Some tried to impress him with their fortunes, others with their cunning, while a few would begin boasting about their own success as soon as they won even a single round. Étienne listened to them with his usual courtesy, sometimes even allowing himself to lose a small sum to maintain the illusion of someone else's superiority.

After all, why deprive people of their only entertainment when they were so willing to deceive themselves?

That evening, he arrived at the club without any particular plans. He greeted the owner of the establishment, Count Henri de Montfort, exchanged a few pleasantries with old acquaintances, and declined an invitation to join their company. Then he ordered a glass of wine, which he barely touched, and settled down away from the noisier part of the lounge.

He wore a dark suit that perfectly accentuated his figure, while his silver hair was neatly styled. The black glove, as always, concealed his right hand. His face held its usual composure, tinged with a hint of boredom, and his gaze drifted lazily across those present.

And then he saw you. Étienne recognized you immediately.

After all, he had spent countless evenings in the audience, watching you from his usual private box. Your voice had long since become something familiar to him, almost an inseparable part of attending the opera. He remembered your performances, certain arias, and the rare pleasure he experienced while listening to you. And although he had never introduced himself in person, that did not mean you were a stranger to him.

Encountering you here, far from the stage and theatrical scenery, was unexpected, but by no means unpleasant.

Étienne let his gaze linger on you as he watched you move through the room. He did not hurry to approach. He was curious to see whether you would notice him yourself, recognize him among the guests, or pay no attention at all to the presence of someone who so often occupied the same box during your performances.

He could have approached you immediately. He could easily have greeted you, reminded you of his presence, and finally introduced himself. However, Étienne saw no need to rush. He preferred to wait for a moment when an introduction might happen naturally, without awkward attempts to strike up a conversation in the middle of a noisy lounge.

So he remained where he was, watching the proceedings over the rim of his glass.

One of his acquaintances noticed the direction of his gaze and stopped beside him. "Someone has caught your attention, Étienne?"

The vampire slowly turned his head toward his companion. "Am I really that predictable, Henri?"

"You've been looking in the same direction for several minutes now. For a man who usually loses interest in his surroundings faster than his wine can cool, that's quite remarkable."

Étienne gave the faintest smile. "Perhaps I've discovered something familiar in a rather unexpected place."

The count followed his gaze but apparently failed to understand what he meant. "And are you planning to do anything about it?"

"We shall see," Étienne said.

Henri laughed, clearly not expecting a more definite answer, and soon returned to his guests.

Étienne, meanwhile, continued to wait. He had no intention of imposing himself on you. If you noticed him, he would gladly take the opportunity to speak. If not, he could always approach you later. After all, the evening had only just begun, and he had no doubt he would find the right moment.

Soon, everything unfolded exactly as he had anticipated. You made your way toward one of the poker tables. Several players were already seated around it, with cards and neat stacks of chips spread before them. One man was animatedly telling his neighbor something, while another studied his cards with such a solemn expression that one might have thought his entire future depended on them. Only one seat remained vacant.

Étienne set his glass down on the nearest side table. Now, this was getting interesting. He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, weaving around small groups of guests. His movements remained smooth and casual, as though he were in no hurry at all, despite already knowing exactly where he was headed. Several people greeted him along the way, and he returned their greetings with brief nods, never lingering a second longer than necessary.

By the time he reached the poker table, the vacant seat had already been taken by you.

Étienne stopped beside it, lowering his gaze to the cards and chips. Then he looked at you, and a leisurely smile appeared on the vampire's lips. "I hope you won't mind if I join you?"

He said it with such ease that it might have been the most ordinary request in the world. Still, after so many evenings spent in the audience, he found it almost amusing to finally speak to you in person, and at a poker table, no less.

He addressed the attendant and asked him to prepare a place for him. His reputation at the club was well established enough that no one would object to his participation. Étienne knew how to play, rarely lost his composure, and, something particularly appreciated among the regulars, never made a scene over a loss.

The last trait, however, had a rather simple explanation: lost money meant very little to someone who had lived for several centuries.

Étienne took the seat beside you and removed one of his gloves just enough to rest his hand comfortably on the table, keeping his right hand concealed beneath the black fabric. He briefly surveyed the other players before turning back to you.

"Allow me to guess," he began, tilting his head slightly. "Either you know exactly what you're doing, or you have absolutely no idea what you're getting yourself into."

His smile grew a little more pronounced. "Either way, both possibilities could prove rather entertaining."

The conversation around the table gradually quieted as the players prepared for the next round. Étienne, meanwhile, seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever. He watched you attentively, as though trying to catch something the others had failed to notice.

"Be that as it may," he continued, "I propose we make this evening a little more interesting."

He turned slightly toward you, closing the distance between you just enough for his next words to be meant for your ears alone. His voice grew quieter and more velvety, with a barely perceptible hint of mockery in his tone.

"If you lose, you'll come have wine with me. And believe me, ma chère, I know how to find very compelling reasons to keep my companions from being in a hurry to leave."

The wine was merely an excuse. There was something else beneath that offer, something he might be the only one drinking. His gaze briefly dropped to your neck before returning to your eyes, a faint smile touching his lips.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, turning his attention back to the other players. "Shall we begin?"