PART 2: The moment the strange man lowered his face toward Teresa’s neck and let out that soft, chilling hiss, every sensible thought in her mind shattered. Her body froze against the bedroom wall, not because she trusted him, but because something ancient in the room seemed to command stillness. Outside her tiny Queens apartment, traffic moved along the wet November streets, horns blaring, tires whispering over rain-slick pavement, but inside, the whole world had narrowed to his glowing eyes and the cold breath brushing her skin.

He stopped before touching her. His head tilted, exactly the way the white snake had tilted its head whenever Teresa spoke to it. Then, with an expression almost too serious to be frightening, he said, “You smell like betrayal, grief, and cinnamon apples.”

Teresa blinked. “That is not normal conversation.”

The man looked genuinely confused, as if he had expected gratitude instead of panic. He stood barefoot on her old hardwood floor, wrapped in her white bedsheet like some dangerous myth that had wandered into a rent-controlled apartment by mistake. His long black hair fell over his shoulders, his skin was pale as moonlight, and his beauty was so sharp it almost looked cruel.

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