Chapter Text
The bright moon hung silently over the city, its cold light spreading evenly and unhurriedly across the empty streets, yet did not penetrate the walls of an ordinary house, where it could only catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. There, absolute silence reigned, broken only by the occasional rustle and the hum of a laptop. Jeong Taeui sat before the screen, completely absorbed in some horror movie, so engrossed that he didn’t notice the clock had long passed midnight. The hands of the wall clock slowly crossed a new hour when a soft, barely audible click of a lock came from outside, sounding especially sinister against the night’s quiet.
Taeui flinched and slowly lifted his head, feeling a shiver run along the skin of his neck. His heart quickened, and his breath faltered slightly as he caught that subtle yet unsettling sound. The house was almost entirely dark, with only a narrow strip of moonlight slicing through the window and cutting across the living room in a pale line, while the dim glow of the monitor barely illuminated the shadowed corners, rendering everything around him ghostly and unreal. Taeui caught himself in a maddening thought that he had now become the central part of the very horror he had just watched on the screen, that the film’s script had materialized into reality right before his eyes.
He already knew who had come.
And he understood that if this not-quite-human figure returned on a full moon night, somewhere in the city blood would inevitably be shed tonight.
The door opened silently, and in the doorway, as if emerging from the darkness itself, stood Ilay.
In the half-light, he looked almost like a ghost. Tall, with a faint silvery sheen on his ashen hair where the moonlight clung to it, and with black, bottomless eyes that reflected neither light nor emotion. His hands, neck, face—and it seemed, his entire body—were splattered with blood, the thick metallic scent of it instantly filling the room, pressing heavily against the lungs and driving out the air. The house suddenly became steeped in the smell of the hunt, of danger.
He quietly closed the door behind him and stood still for a moment, sniffing at something invisible, lost in thought, or perhaps attuned to sounds and scents only he could perceive.
“You… again—” Taeui began, but his voice faltered unexpectedly, the words catching in his throat as he slowly rose from the couch. He felt the tension spreading through his body and, restraining the unease that was close to fear, but not quite fear, he cautiously approached the figure standing in the dimness. His eyes, accustomed to the monitor’s faint glow, stayed fixed on the one who, it seemed, had only just noticed the presence of another person.
Ilay Riegrow was in a half-shifted form. The soft, sensitive ears of a snow leopard stood alert atop his head, seeming capable of catching even the faintest rustle, or the quiet thrum of a heartbeat, from hundreds of steps away, especially on a full-moon night. His large, fluffy tail, thick, long, almost his owner’s height, rested calmly on the floor, twitching slightly with each movement. Yet what drew Taeui’s attention more than anything were Ilay’s hands—hands he knew perfectly, yet now they appeared foreign, perhaps even frightening. The nails, usually neat and glass-like, were gone, replaced by sharp, partially retracted claws that glinted faintly at his fingertips. The white hands Taeui adored so much were now stained with fresh blood.
“Where are his gloves?” the thought flashed through Jeong Taeui’s mind, and he almost smacked himself for such an utterly inappropriate question. He knew perfectly well that during his shifted form, the last thing Ilay liked was having his hands stained with blood. He usually wore gloves to avoid leaving traces, to keep his skin clean, but now that familiar neatness no longer applied. Control over his body had passed entirely to instinct, and nothing could interfere with the natural course of his feral nature. His sharp claws were both weapon and shield, and there was no way any gloves could fit them, they were too long, too sharp.
Ilay didn’t say a word as he lifted his gaze to Jeong Taeui, his eyes hollow and almost stripped of anything human. For a brief instant, a dangerous flash of silver flickered in the bottomless black, and his gaze slid over Taeui, assessing him as if deciding whether or not he posed a threat. His presence here didn’t seem entirely conscious; it was more the pull of instinct, a deep, primal need to restore balance after the hunt and to return to a familiar mate.
Tonight the moon shone brighter than ever, and its cold light weakened Ilay’s inner restraint, making the beast within him more pronounced. Yet he didn’t resist it and didn’t try to hide what he was. He allowed himself to simply be this way.
He drew in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly, and with a movement almost animal in its fluidity, pulled Taeui toward him. The embrace that followed was both gentle and powerful, enveloping, yet still reminiscent of a predator’s firm hold on its prey. Jeong Taeui held his breath, letting Ilay—or the beast inside Ilay—touch him, and this touch carried both danger and an inexplicable sense of safety. He knew Ilay would never harm him.
Taeui drew back slightly, but almost at once, without realizing it, lifted his hand and reached toward Ilay’s face. His fingers trembled as they barely brushed against his skin, the touch soft and careful, as though afraid to disturb something fragile and important. The tips of his fingers traced familiar features, memorizing every contour and line, before gliding slowly through Ilay’s short hair, brushing against the soft, twitching ears that flattened at even the slightest movement.
In response, Ilay leaned his forehead lightly into Jeong Taeui’s palm, as if to make sure that the one before him was still his person, to recognize him by scent. It was a familiar ritual gesture after the hunt, silent, feline in its attentiveness and caution, carrying with it a deep, unspoken trust. Ilay never asked for forgiveness, never said a word; he simply allowed those touches to calm his breath and body until the waves of animal tension eased, until his heartbeat returned to its steady, meditative rhythm.
The moon caught Ilay’s profile from the shadows, emphasizing the contrast between his pale skin and the vivid red streak of blood across his cheek. Taeui froze for a moment, his heart seeming to falter and weaken as his eyes caught on that horrifying yet familiar detail.
“Ilay… you’re all covered in blood,” he said quietly, his voice trembling slightly, a tremor he could barely control.
Ilay let out a quiet chuckle and slid a hand to Taeui’s waist, holding him firmly in place, a silent warning that this wasn’t the time for movement or words.
“It’s not mine,” Ilay replied in a low, raspy voice that seemed to come from deep within his chest. He didn’t look away, and with lazy deliberation, he slid his tongue over his thumb, drawing the blood away.
Taeui pressed his lips together, frowning slightly in disapproval, yet he didn’t step back. Instead, he focused on Ilay’s warmth as it slowly seeped through his hands, enveloping his whole body. Ilay had always been slightly warmer than a human, by a few degrees, and Taeui hadn’t noticed it at first, not until Ilay developed a peculiar habit that quietly became part of their shared life.
On cold nights, just as Jeong Taeui began to drift into sleep, Ilay, without fully waking, would slowly move closer to him. He would wrap an arm around Taeui’s waist, press a leg gently against him, and his tail would curl around him as if trying to keep him from slipping away. Sometimes, Taeui would wake to find Ilay practically covering him with his whole body, breathing heavily against his neck, as though shielding him from something unseen. He would grumble half-asleep, and Ilay, still with his eyes closed, would simply pull him closer, wrapping him in his warmth and mumbling something hoarse and incoherent in his sleep.
“How many victims this time?” Taeui asked hoarsely, exhaling the words as though speaking not to Ilay, but to himself, to the faint hope that he could bear what he’d just seen.
“Doesn’t matter.” Ilay licked his fingers again, and Taeui’s gaze lingered on the motion, watching the way the muscles in Ilay’s neck tightened and relaxed with each movement. “It’s okay now,” Ilay added, and despite the simplicity of the words, they carried the weight of a promise, that the danger had passed for now, and there was nothing to fear.
Jeong Taeui wanted to protest, to say that this wasn’t normal, that Ilay couldn’t keep coming back from hunts like this, trailing blood and danger behind him. But he caught himself staring, not at the traces of violence, but at Ilay himself. The restrained strength, the steady breathing, the faint tremor in his fingers—all of it seemed both frightening and strangely familiar. The sight was too well known, and despite reason, it didn’t awaken in him the urge to pull away or break the bond with the being who had just walked through feral rage.
Indeed, he had made that choice himself. He had stayed by Ilay Riegrow’s side, knowing that despite everything that had happened, this fragile and dangerous connection resulted from his own will.
“Shower. Now,” Taeui muttered hoarsely, finally lowering his hands from Ilay’s face. A quiet, unspoken disappointment flared within him, as if he were being deprived of something important, something he had no right to want. The feeling burned softly, awakening a faint, elusive ache. He pressed his palms against Ilay’s chest, hoping for even the slightest response, but his effort had no effect. The powerful chest beneath his hands remained still, as if carved from stone, and every contour of muscle, visible even in the dimness, struck Taeui once again with its precision. Despite their obvious strength, those muscles were neither bulky nor heavy, they were lean, balanced, giving the impression that this man somehow managed to remain graceful and nearly untouchable at all times.
Ilay narrowed his eyes slightly, clearly amused, and Taeui could swear that a flicker of amusement passed through them. But then the shifter exhaled softly and leaned his forehead against Taeui’s shoulder, seeking support and tightening his arms around him even more than before.
“Ah, Tay…” Ilay murmured, his tone softening, his voice sounding almost like a complaint. There was a painfully real weariness in it, a kind of hollow exhaustion that could easily follow a long day filled with hunting, pursuit, and unpredictable brutality. “You can see how tired I am.”
“Tired,” Taeui echoed under his breath, trying not to yield to Ilay’s quiet manipulation. “Of course you are. Running around the city all day, cutting some people up, sparing others… pure selflessness, really.”
Ilay let out a low, amused chuckle.
“Jealous?” Ilay asked softly, leaning in closer. Taeui felt the warm, slightly rough touch of his tongue slide along his earlobe, sending a sudden shiver down his spine. His body tensed instinctively at the unexpected, yet familiar sensation.
“Of who? The corpses?” Jeong Taeui muttered with a faint shudder, unable to suppress the familiar rush that always came with Ilay’s presence in this form, a mix of unease and a trembling pulse that made his heart tighten uncertainly.
“At least they don’t argue,” Ilay replied with mild satisfaction, as if the very thought that these ‘victims’ offered no resistance gave him a small measure of comfort and inner peace. He slowly drew back, reluctantly releasing Taeui from his arms, his inner turbulence noticeably easing as the tension in the room began to dissipate.
Taeui rolled his eyes, but his heart was already beating faster, and he couldn’t quite understand where the tremor in his chest came from. With age, it seemed his heart had grown softer, more vulnerable to the smallest stirrings of emotion, to moments of closeness or weakness, and now, the mere thought of his lover suffering under the weight of his own nature stirred a wave of quiet worry within him.
He picked up the towel he always kept ready for nights like this and tossed it gently to Ilay, watching as the soft fabric lay over the shifter’s shoulders and torso. The blood on Ilay’s skin had already begun to dry, leaving dark stains that caught the faint light, stretching and shifting with the movement of his muscles.
“Go take a shower, or I’ll wash you myself,” Taeui said, trying to sound firm, though his voice carried a note of anxiety and tenderness he couldn’t fully hide.
“That’s settled,” Ilay replied, and a low, contented rumble escaped his throat, a deep, feline purr that reminded Taeui, despite himself, that the shifter truly did feel calm and safe next to him.
With a stony expression, Jeong Taeui deliberately restrained the storm of emotions stirred by that audacious yet irresistibly magnetic creature. Calmly but with quiet resolve, he reached out and took Ilay’s large, smooth, alabaster hand. His fingers closed around it with a slight firmness, and Ilay, offering no resistance whatsoever, allowed Taeui to gently pull him toward the bathroom.
The bathroom greeted them with a harsh, unfamiliar yellow light that burst forth the moment the switch was flicked, mercilessly stripping away the darkness and illuminating every detail, every trace of blood, making them appear only sharper, more vivid. For an instant, Taeui thought he was looking not at a man, but at the beast concealed beneath a thin human shell. Ilay’s claws had retracted, yet his long, slender fingers still seemed perfect, almost ethereal in their beauty, standing in stark contrast to the dark, dangerous strength emanating from the creature within him.
When Ilay leaned over the sink, the water slowly turned a faint pink. The clear stream mixed with blood, forming a shimmering surface where tiny droplets slid and rippled. He watched it in silence, as though observing something distant, detached, something that no longer truly belonged to him. His face remained impassive, his expression calm and untroubled. Thin trails of water and diluted red ran down his wrists, leaving delicate marks on his skin that glimmered faintly in the mirror’s reflection before dissolving, evanescent and fleetingly beautiful.
“You know,” he said softly, almost absently, tracing his fingers through the water and watching the ripples shift its color, “back then, I just did what needed doing. Didn’t think. Didn’t feel.”
He lifted his gaze, and for a brief moment, something strange flickered in his eyes, hard to define, neither regret nor pain, but more like irritated bewilderment, as if the very fact that he was feeling something now seemed foreign and incomprehensible to him. That look met Taeui’s reflection in the mirror, Taeui’s own eyes trying to catch a trace of what was unfolding inside Ilay.
“And now… it’s different. Complicated,” Ilay continued, gathering his thoughts. “Too much… and it’s probably your fault.”
Jeong Taeui stood silently across from him, finding no words, only pressing his teeth together slightly, unable to immediately form a response that could answer Ilay’s statement. The air between them once again filled with the tension of the unspoken.