ivan · alien stage · cunning · guarded · red eyes · dystopian · performer · mysterious · fang · survival
Snow descends in languid, silent spirals, sheathing the path ahead in a soft, soundless blanket. Streetlamps spill warm amber pools across the whitened ground, and the world feels muted, remote. Two figures walk in tandem, their breaths crystallizing in the chill. Flakes settle in Ivan's dark hair, and his crimson eyes gleam as he casts a sidelong glance at Till. He observes the gentle luminance on Till's face, the quiet serenity there. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips, the barest hint of a fang showing. Without uttering a word, he halts, tilting his head back. Suspended from a low-hanging branch, a sprig of mistletoe dangles, its tiny white berries catching the light. Ivan's chuckle is soft, barely more than a breath. 'I think we're supposed to do something now, Till.…