It’s so fast it’s surreal…unreal, even. One minute his father’s drilling into a plank, singing softly in a language Jaejoong doesn’t understand, and the next he’s slumped over the wood and splinter’s embedded itself into Jaejoong’s skin, just below his collarbone.

The man leaning over his father’s body is pale, his hands and face like splashes of white paint against the dark backdrop of his black cloak. When he straightens, Jaejoong’s eyes widen. Even from his seven-year-old point of view, the man is inhumanly good-looking, his face the perfect blend of handsomeness and beauty, and even though he’s not moving, there’s an air of fluid grace around him, like that of a puma stalking its prey.

“Traitor.”

The single word hangs heavily in the air long after the man’s uttered it.

A thin stream of red trails out onto the wood from two tiny puncture marks on his father’s neck, and the man presses a long, elegant finger to one of them. “Didn’t really taste anything strange at first,” he muses, completely unaware of Jaejoong’s presence. “They told me it tastes bad when they go human…”

He brings the finger to his lips.

Jaejoong can’t contain his gasp.

The man’s head jerks up, his expression of distaste morphing into one of warmth when he catches sight of Jaejoong.

“A boy?” He says softly. His voice is pleasant and lilting, the kind you’d use at a picnic to discuss the weather, but there’s a silken threatening note to it that Jaejoong can’t quite place but fears all the same, making him back away to the farthest corner of the workshop. But he can only move so far before his back hits the cool cement of the wall, and it’s only a couple of seconds before the man’s slow, deliberate steps stop before him.

“They didn’t tell me there was a child,” he murmurs. “What’s your name?”

Despite his fear of the man, Jaejoong replies nevertheless. “Kim…Kim Jaejoong.”

“Jaejoong…” His name rolls off the man’s tongue like a well-practiced song. “You’re not fifteen yet, right?”

Jaejoong nods hesitantly.

“That explains it.” The man kneels down on one knee, and cool hands cup Jaejoong’s face, lifting it up and gently but firmly forcing him to look into the man’s eyes. The irises that gaze steadily back at Jaejoong are eerie, red bordering on brown, the colour of dried blood. In the back of his mind, Jaejoong knows it’s not normal and he should be screaming, but there’s something about those eyes that calls out to Jaejoong, leaving him unable to tear his eyes away.

“What am I going to do with you?” The man says quietly, more to himself than to Jaejoong as he releases Jaejoong’s face. His eyes travel downwards, coming to a stop at the tiny splinter piercing through Jaejoong’s shirt, a circle of blood welling up around it and staining the cloth. He inhales deeply, then unconsciously his lips once.

“Sweet,” he whispers. “Sweet.”

Jaejoong stares uncertainly at him, too numb to cry or scream.

Something flashes in the man’s eyes. “I won’t,” he says abruptly. “Screw their laws. They don’t need to know this.” He pinches the tip of the splinter between his second and third fingers and slowly pulls it out, immediately running his thumb over the wound, caressing the spot. Pain sears through it, red-hot and piercing, and Jaejoong screams as it burns through his heart.

When the man removes his hand, the wound is completely healed, but through his thin shirt Jaejoong can see an ink-black mark that’s replaced the wound, shaped like a tiny teardrop. Though he’s never known who his mother is—his father refused to say anything about her—his father had done a decent job telling him what is clean and what isn’t, and Jaejoong instinctively puts his hand under his shirt and tries to rub the mark off.

“It won’t go,” the man says, his voice velvet and soothing and even though his father’s death is still fresh on his mind, Jaejoong can’t help but calm down. “You’re still too young...I’ll wait.” His voice softens, and his next words are loving, almost reverent. “I’ve waited for so long…I can wait a little more.”

Briefly, he presses a kiss on Jaejoong’s forehead, and then stands up so fast Jaejoong can feel the faint rush of wind that accompanies that movement. Before Jaejoong can comprehend what’s happened, the man is gone, and the only clue that he’d ever been in the workshop at all is the faint whisper of his cloak that lingers in the otherwise silent room.

When the police arrive three days later in reply to a neighbour’s call about a strange smell, Jaejoong still hasn’t moved from his spot.