Chapter 2: The Scent of Scars

Chapter 2: The Scent of Scars

Every leap was a violation. Jaehwan’s muscles, honed by years of grueling Circle training, now moved with an alien fluidity, a predatory grace that was not his. He was a prisoner in his own skull, watching through his own eyes as his body became a blur of motion against the rain-slicked canvas of Seoul's rooftops.

The world was a deafening, blinding storm of information. The city wasn't just lights and sounds anymore; it was a tapestry of life, and he could feel every single thread. The frantic pulse of a club-goer dancing three streets away, the quiet desperation of a student cramming for an exam in a high-rise apartment, the rhythmic drip of a leaky faucet in a building he was currently scaling—it all flooded his mind, a tsunami of sensory data that threatened to shatter his sanity.

Focus, vessel, Kasian’s voice commanded, a blade of cold steel slicing through the chaos. These are but the barest whispers of true sight. Filter the noise. Focus on the song.

The song. That’s what it felt like. A magnetic pull, a single, pure note in the cacophony that drew him forward with irresistible force. It was a scent, a taste on the air, a psychic resonance that promised… everything. And woven into this overwhelming desire was another, far more primal and horrifying urge.

A thirst.

It clawed at the back of his throat, a dry, rasping fire that water could never quench. With his enhanced senses, he could smell the coppery tang of blood in the very air, could hear the life-giving liquid pumping through the veins of the mortals scurrying below. The sound was a maddening drumbeat, and the thirst whispered that each and every one was a potential wellspring of relief. Jaehwan recoiled in disgust, his own morality a flimsy shield against the ancient predator now wearing his skin.

“Stop this,” he pleaded in the confines of his mind. “This is insane.”

It is destiny, Kasian corrected him, his tone one of absolute certainty. She is near. My queen. Her soul has called to me across the abyss of ages. I will not be denied.

Jaehwan’s body dropped from a rooftop into a darkened alley, landing without a sound. The target was close. Across the street stood a silent, imposing building of old stone and darkened glass: the Seojin Municipal Archives, a repository for rare books and forgotten histories. The pull was coming from inside.

There. She hides herself amongst dead trees and forgotten words. How quaint.

As his body started to move towards the grand entrance, Jaehwan fought with every shred of his will. No. This is wrong. Whoever she is, leave her alone!

Kasian’s only answer was a wave of raw power that slammed Jaehwan’s consciousness back, leaving him a helpless, raging spectator once more.

---

Inside the hallowed silence of the archives, Elara ran a careful, gloved finger down the spine of a 17th-century grimoire. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and loneliness—a scent she had chosen as her shield. Here, in this world of quiet, ordered history, the chaotic, violent world of the supernatural felt a million miles away. It was a lie, of course, but it was a comfortable one.

A life of normalcy. That was her goal. No more hunters, no more monsters, no more whispered prophecies and the constant, gnawing fear. Just rare books, meticulous research, and the steady, predictable rhythm of a life she controlled.

A sudden, sharp tingling sensation made her gasp. Her hand flew to her collarbone, to the silvery, faint scar that cut across the delicate skin. It was cold, a line of ice against her flesh, a familiar and deeply unwelcome warning. Her latent senses, the ones she tried so desperately to suppress, were screaming.

A presence was coming.

It wasn't the lumbering energy of a ghoul or the feral static of a werewolf. This was different. It was a darkness so profound, so ancient and vast, it felt like a black hole tearing its way through the city, sucking all light and warmth into its maw. It was a suffocating pressure, a kingly, absolute authority that demanded reverence and terror in equal measure.

And beneath that crushing, alien darkness, there was something else. A flicker of something familiar. A ghost.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. No. It can’t be.

She stumbled back from the table, her eyes darting towards the heavy oak doors of the main reading room. The tingling in her scar intensified, no longer a cold premonition but a searing burn. Her psychometric abilities were flaring uncontrollably, the residual history of the room—the hopes, fears, and quiet contemplations of a thousand readers—screaming at her in a panicked chorus, all of them silenced by the approach of this singular, monstrous will.

The grand doors didn't open. They were thrown wide, slamming against the stone walls with a crack of thunder that shattered the library’s sacred peace.

And there he stood.

Jaehwan.

But it wasn't him. Not the boy she had trained with, laughed with, and perhaps, in another life, might have loved. His lean, athletic frame was the same, but he held himself with an impossible, predatory stillness. The air around him seemed to warp, and shadows clung to him like a royal cloak. But it was his eyes that stole the breath from her lungs. Not the soft, tired silver-grey she remembered, but a burning, luminous blood-red. They fixed on her, and in their depths, she saw not recognition, but possession. A triumphant, ancient hunger that had found its most coveted prize.

“Elara,” he said, but the voice was a layered chord, Jaehwan’s familiar timbre overlaid with a deeper, resonant baritone that vibrated in her very bones.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her shock, immediately followed by a wave of pure, unadulterated hatred. This monster wearing her friend’s face was the living embodiment of her worst nightmare. The reunion was not one of sorrow or confusion, but of visceral terror.

Her mind fractured. The sight of him, the monstrous power radiating from him, the searing pain of her scar—it all coalesced, tearing a hole in the present and plunging her back into the memory she had tried for two years to bury.

---

Flashback

The alley. The same damn rain. It plastered her dark hair to her face as she knelt, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding from a wound in her mentor’s side.

“They were waiting for us, Elara! It was a trap!” he’d gasped, his face pale.

Then, footsteps. Not the heavy tread of the vampires they’d been hunting, but the familiar, quiet steps of a Circle hunter. Relief warred with confusion.

“Jaehwan?” she called out, turning her head. “They ambushed us, we need to—”

He stood at the mouth of the alley, a silhouette against the garish neon. He was unnervingly calm. His blade was drawn, its silver edge gleaming.

“I know,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of all warmth. “A necessary sacrifice.”

The words, the same damn words she’d later hear he had been told, made no sense. Before she could process the betrayal, he moved. He was impossibly fast. He wasn't aiming for their wounded mentor. He was aiming for her.

She tried to scramble back, but he was on her in an instant. His grip was like iron on her shoulder, forcing her against the wet brick wall. She saw his eyes then, and they weren’t silver-grey. They were clouded, a strange, dull crimson, as if a veil had been drawn over his soul.

“Jaehwan, what are you doing?!” she screamed, a plea and a command.

He didn't answer. He simply raised his blade. It wasn’t a killing blow. It was a mark. The consecrated silver sliced across her collarbone, a line of excruciating, burning agony. It was a brand, a claim, a wound meant to do more than just bleed.

Through the blinding pain, she saw him lean in close, his breath a cold whisper against her ear.

“He is coming for you,” the voice had rasped, a distorted, guttural sound that was not Jaehwan’s. “The Sovereign will reclaim his Queen.”

Then he was gone, melting back into the shadows, leaving her screaming in the rain with a scar that would never truly heal and a betrayal that had burned her world to ash.