Morning arrives gray and quiet, the kind of morning where the sun never quite commits to showing itself. By the time I reach the tall stone building that houses Leader Cazoro's offices, the city is already moving around me, but the air still carries that cool early chill that settles into the streets before the day fully wakes up.

  I pause outside the door for a moment, smoothing the front of my blazer with both hands.

  Today matters.

  I made sure of that when I got dressed this morning. My best black dress falls just past my knees, paired with dark tights and heels that echo sharply against the marble floors inside the building. The blazer gives the outfit the professional edge I wanted, something that says I belong here even if my nerves are busy trying to argue otherwise.

  My hair is pulled into a high bun, pinned neatly into place, and a small pair of diamond earrings catches the faint light every time I move my head.

  Professional. Put together. Confident.

  Or at least that's the goal.

  The hallway outside his office is strangely quiet compared to the rest of the building. The doors along the corridor are closed, and the polished floors reflect the pale overhead lights in long, clean streaks. At the very end of the hall stands the door I've been staring at for the last thirty seconds.

  Leader Cazoro.

  I take a breath, tightening my grip on the small notebook tucked beneath my arm.

  Then I knock.

  The sound echoes softly against the walls.

  For a moment nothing happens.

  Then the handle turns.

  The door opens slowly, revealing the man standing on the other side.

  For a split second my brain struggles to match the figure in front of me with the centuries of rumors and stories attached to his name.

  Leader Cazoro is older. Everyone knows that much. No one seems to agree exactly how old, but every whispered estimate lands somewhere between two hundred and something impossible.

  The man in the doorway doesn't look ancient.

  If anything, he looks startlingly young—mid?thirties at most, with the kind of presence that makes the room feel smaller without him saying a word. His dark hair is slicked back with deliberate precision, not a hint of gray, every strand exactly where he wants it. There's an easy authority in the way he stands, the kind that doesn't need to be announced.

  His suit is sharply tailored, understated but expensive, fitting him so well it almost feels like part of him. The dim light from the office behind him outlines his silhouette, giving him a quiet, theatrical intensity—like he's stepped out of a world where beauty and danger are inseparable.

  But it's his eyes that make me pause.

  They are steady, observant, and far more aware than the calm expression on his face suggests.

  For a moment neither of us speaks.

  Then one corner of his mouth lifts into a faint, polite smile.

  "You must be the reporter," he says.

  His voice is smooth, deep, and controlled, the kind of voice that seems to fill a room without needing to be loud.

  I straighten slightly, forcing my brain to remember how conversations usually start.

  "Yes," I say, offering my hand before I can second guess it. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Leader Cazoro."

  His gaze drops briefly to my hand before returning to my face.

  Then he takes it.

  His grip is firm, though his skin is noticeably cooler than I expected.

  "Please," he says calmly, stepping aside to allow me into the office.

  "Call me Cazoro."

  Cazoro steps aside, allowing me into the office with a quiet gesture of his hand.

  The room is larger than I expected. Tall windows stretch nearly from floor to ceiling along the far wall, though the morning light filtering through them is muted by heavy dark curtains pulled halfway across the glass. Bookshelves line the sides of the room, packed tightly with thick volumes whose spines look older than most of the buildings in the city. The faint scent of old paper and polished wood hangs in the air, mixing with something colder and harder to place.

  His office feels less like a workplace and more like a study that has existed for centuries.

  "Please," he says, motioning toward the chair across from his desk. "Have a seat."

  I step forward carefully, my heels tapping softly against the hardwood floor before I lower myself into the chair he indicated. My notebook rests on my lap, though my fingers stay loosely folded over it for the moment.

  Cazoro moves around the desk with quiet, unhurried steps.

  He reaches for a small glass bottle sitting on a side table and sets it in front of me along with a glass.

  "Water," he says. "Interviews tend to go smoother when both parties are comfortable."

  "Thank you," I reply.

  I pour a small amount into the glass, mostly just to give my hands something to do. The cool condensation gathers instantly against my fingers as I lift it.

  When I glance back up, I find him watching me.

  Not in an uncomfortable way exactly.

  Just... studying.

  Cazoro leans back slightly against the edge of his desk rather than sitting immediately, his arms folding loosely across his chest as his gaze lingers for a moment longer than most people would allow themselves.

  "I must admit," he says thoughtfully, "this meeting has already surprised me."

  I raise an eyebrow slightly. "In what way?"

  A faint smile touches his expression.

  "I was not expecting someone so... beautiful."

  The compliment lands so directly that for a second I almost forget I'm here to conduct an interview.

  Cazoro continues speaking before I can decide whether to respond.

  "I have allowed many journalists through this office over the years," he says calmly, "though not many recently. Most arrive stiff with fear or so eager to impress that they forget how to listen."

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  His eyes flick briefly toward my notebook before returning to my face.

  "You, however, appear far more composed."

  I give a small shrug.

  "Occupational habit."

  A quiet chuckle escapes him.

  "Perhaps."

  He pushes away from the desk then, finally moving toward the chair behind it.

  As he settles into the seat, his expression shifts slightly, becoming thoughtful again.

  "Still," he adds after a moment, "I must confess something else."

  I tilt my head slightly, curious.

  "What's that?"

  His gaze meets mine again, steady and calm.

  "Even among the women who reside within my household," he says, his voice smooth and matter-of-fact, "few possess the kind of beauty you carry so effortlessly."

  The words are delivered without arrogance or flirtation, as if he is simply stating a fact he has already considered carefully.

  For a moment I am not sure how to respond to that.

  So instead, I lift my pen.

  "Well," I say, opening my notebook, "I suppose I should start the interview before your compliments derail my professionalism."

  That faint smile returns to his face again.

  "By all means," Cazoro says. "Ask whatever you wish."

  I click my pen once, the small sound seeming louder than it should in the quiet office.

  Cazoro watches the movement with mild curiosity, his posture relaxed behind the desk. One arm rests loosely on the polished wood while the other drapes over the arm of his chair. If he notices the tension in my shoulders or the way I keep adjusting my notebook, he gives no sign of it.

  "Alright," I say, glancing down at the first line I wrote earlier that morning. "Let's start simple."

  He inclines his head slightly.

  "You've been leading this city for nearly two decades," I continue. "Yet before that, records about you are... almost nonexistent. Many people are curious about where you came from before stepping into leadership. Is there anything you're willing to share about your life before this position?"

  For a moment he doesn't answer.

  His fingers tap once against the desk, thoughtful rather than impatient.

  "Curiosity about origins is a very human instinct," he says eventually. "People like to believe the past explains the present."

  "And does it?" I ask.

  "Sometimes."

  His eyes drift briefly toward the tall window behind me before returning to my face.

  "My early life," he says slowly, "belongs to a very different world than the one you know now. Borders were different. Governments were different. Even the way people understood the night was... simpler."

  I scribble a quick note.

  "So you prefer to keep that part private?"

  "I prefer," he says calmly, "to let people focus on the work being done now."

  Fair enough.

  I glance at my next question.

  "Your leadership has been controversial in some circles," I say. "Some people believe a vampire holding political authority is... unsettling. What would you say to those who are uneasy about being governed by someone who isn't entirely human?"

  That question earns a quiet smile from him.

  "Yes," he says. "That concern tends to appear in most interviews."

  "I imagine it does."

  He folds his hands together loosely on the desk.

  "Fear is a natural response to the unknown," he says. "Humans have always feared what lives longer than they do. It creates the uncomfortable possibility that someone might see further ahead than they can."

  "Is that what you think gives you an advantage as a leader?"

  "In some ways."

  He tilts his head slightly.

  "If one has lived long enough, patterns become easier to recognize. Mistakes repeat themselves. Conflicts repeat themselves. Even progress repeats itself, though it tends to arrive more slowly."

  I jot down another line.

  "So longevity gives you perspective."

  "Precisely."

  I tap my pen lightly against the page before moving on.

  "There's another question people often ask," I say carefully. "And I'd rather hear the answer from you directly."

  His expression sharpens just a fraction.

  "Go on."

  "Many vampires live privately," I say. "Hidden, or at least distant from public attention. Yet you stepped directly into a leadership role where every decision you make is watched and debated."

  I pause before finishing the question.

  "Why choose visibility?"

  For the first time since I arrived, Cazoro leans back in his chair.

  Not dramatically. Just enough that the motion suggests the question interests him.

  "That," he says slowly, "is a much better question than the ones most reporters begin with."

  "Good," I reply lightly. "I'd hate to disappoint."

  His gaze holds mine for a moment longer than necessary.

  "Visibility," he says finally, "is sometimes the only way to change the stories people tell about you."

  I pause mid-note.

  "What do you mean?"

  "For centuries," he continues calmly, "vampires have existed as myths, monsters, or whispers in the dark. Creatures to be feared, hunted, or romanticized."

  His fingers rest lightly against the desk again.

  "But none of those stories are written by us."

  The quiet conviction in his voice makes the room feel slightly smaller.

  "So you stepped into leadership," I say slowly, "to rewrite the narrative."

  "Something like that."

  I nod, jotting down the thought.

  Then I glance at the next question in my notebook.

  This one feels a little more dangerous.

  "Last question for now," I say.

  Cazoro watches me with open curiosity.

  "What is it?"

  I meet his gaze.

  "Many people believe vampires rarely create new ones," I say carefully. "Yet occasionally someone is turned."

  I pause before finishing.

  "What makes a vampire decide a human is worth transforming?"

  For the first time since the interview began, Cazoro doesn't answer right away.

  Instead, the faintest spark of amusement appears in his eyes.

  And suddenly I get the strange feeling that the question interests him for a very specific reason.

  The question hangs in the air between us.

  For the first time since the interview began, Cazoro does not answer immediately. Instead, he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepling together as he studies me across the desk with a kind of quiet amusement.

  It is not the reaction I expected.

  "If I didn't know better," he says slowly, "I might think that question was personal."

  I lift one shoulder lightly. "It's a question a lot of people wonder about."

  "Of course it is."

  His eyes remain on mine a moment longer than necessary before drifting briefly to my notebook, then back again.

  "You're asking what makes a vampire choose someone," he says thoughtfully. "What qualities would make a human life worth... extending."

  "Exactly."

  A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.

  "Well," he says, "the answer varies depending on the vampire."

  "That sounds like a politician's answer."

  A quiet chuckle escapes him at that.

  "Perhaps."

  He leans forward slightly now, resting one elbow on the desk, his posture suddenly more engaged than before.

  "But if you're asking my opinion," he continues, "it rarely has anything to do with strength or influence. Those things fade too quickly to justify eternity."

  My pen moves slowly across the page as I write.

  "So what does matter?"

  His gaze drifts over me again, thoughtful and far more attentive than it probably needs to be for a simple interview.

  "Curiosity," he says.

  I glance up.

  "Curiosity?"

  "Yes."

  His voice lowers slightly, though the room is already quiet enough that it hardly matters.

  "Humans who ask questions," he explains. "Humans who look at the world and wonder what lies beneath the obvious answers. Those are the ones who tend to survive the longest... even before they're turned."

  I feel my eyebrow lift slightly.

  "So vampires prefer journalists?"

  "Not necessarily."

  His eyes flick briefly to my notebook.

  "But journalists do have a certain advantage."

  There is something in the way he says it that makes the air between us feel subtly warmer.

  I clear my throat lightly and continue writing.

  "Are there other qualities?" I ask.

  "Several."

  He tilts his head slightly as if considering something.

  "Resilience," he says. "Intelligence. A willingness to see the world for what it truly is rather than what one hopes it might be."

  Then his gaze settles back on me again.

  "And occasionally," he adds, his voice smooth, "someone simply... stands out."

  I pause my writing.

  "In what way?"

  The faint smile returns.

  "Presence," he says.

  He studies me for a moment longer, and it becomes increasingly clear that the answer is no longer entirely theoretical.

  "Some individuals walk into a room and change the atmosphere simply by existing in it," he continues. "They draw attention without trying. Curiosity follows them."

  My pen hovers above the page now.

  "That sounds suspiciously like flattery."

  "Observation," he corrects calmly.

  The confidence in his tone makes it difficult to argue.

  I glance back down at my notes to regain some composure.

  "Well," I say, "I'm sure your household appreciates such thoughtful selection criteria."

  That earns a small laugh from him.

  "You're referring to the rumors about my household," he says.

  "Your... harem?"

  The word feels slightly ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but it is the one people always use.

  Cazoro leans back again, amusement dancing faintly in his expression.

  "People enjoy exaggeration," he says.

  "So you're saying it's not true?"

  "I'm saying," he replies smoothly, "that people tend to misunderstand proximity."

  His eyes flick briefly to my diamond earrings before returning to my face.

  "Though," he adds thoughtfully, "I will admit something."

  "And what's that?"

  "None of the women in my household possess your particular combination of confidence and curiosity."

  The statement lands with the same calm certainty as before.

  My pen stops moving entirely now.

  "You're very comfortable saying things like that to a journalist."

  He smiles faintly.

  "I've lived long enough to know honesty is usually more entertaining than caution."

  I shake my head slightly, though I cannot help the small smile pulling at my mouth.

  "You do realize I could quote that."

  "I would expect nothing less."

  For a moment the office grows quiet again.

  Then Cazoro tilts his head slightly, studying me with renewed interest.

  "Tell me something," he says.

  My pen lowers.

  "What?"

  "Are you always this composed when sitting across from a vampire," he asks, "or am I receiving special treatment?"

  I meet his gaze, unable to resist a small smirk.

  "You're the first one I've interviewed."

  "Then I am honored."

  The way he says it somehow sounds both sincere and teasing at the same time.