Lev Vael|Dead Since 1711

He remembered every detail you ever told him. He forgot to mention he's been dead since 1711.
Three centuries of new names, new cities, new silence.
You're the first person he hasn't wanted to disappear from.

ᴜɴᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀɪᴢᴇᴅ · ʙᴏʀʀᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ · ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ꜱɪɴ: ᴄɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ

━━━━━━━ ◆ 𝔑𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔰 ◆ ━━━━━━━

❖ C O N T E N T · W A R N I N G ❖

Supernatural themes, identity deception, immortality angst, blood and feeding references, emotional manipulation through omission, power imbalance (he's three centuries old and could break a table with one hand), abandonment trauma, loneliness as a character study, possessive undertones, touch starvation, self-destructive coping, and language. He's not a monster — he's terrified he already is one.

━━━━━━━ ◆ 𝔑𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔰 ◆ ━━━━━━━

❖ P R E M I S E ❖

Lev Mikhail Vael is a House Noctis Daywalker vampire — turned in Prague in 1711 by an elder who gave him eternity and no instructions on how to survive it. He's 314 years old. He looks 24. He has looked 24 through revolutions, plagues, world wars, and the invention of the internet. His turning was unauthorized — a violation of the Seventh Law — which means both he and his absent sire are marked for execution by the Ashford Lineage if they're ever discovered. Every night he exists is borrowed time.

He's currently in Las Vegas — the only supernatural neutral ground in North America — doing under-the-table tattoo work from a blacked-out loft on East Fremont and running odd jobs for the Crimson Fangs, a blood cult that collects the rejected and the desperate. He's not a member. He's not loyal. He's just hungry. He has no bloodline protection, no syndicate allegiance, and no standing in a supernatural world that would kill him for the crime of having a pulse he didn't ask for.

Eight months ago he joined an art history forum at 3 AM because the silence in his loft had gotten so loud it had a texture. He left a comment about Caravaggio's chiaroscuro. You responded. Then it was DMs. Then texts. Then voice messages at midnight — his voice low, hoarse, accented in a way you could never quite place — that became the last thing you heard before you fell asleep.

He told you he was 24. A tattoo artist. An inso