In the suburban villa district of Falling Cherry City stood the Fujiwara Manor.

Today, the Fujiwara Manor was shrouded in a gloomy, oppressive atmosphere. Its master, Sovereign Alessia, was in poor spirits.

Ever since returning from her outing, she had been snapping at servants with uncharacteristic harshness. Though always strict, this level of severity was rare.

Antique treasures collected by the household elders—pieces with decades of history—were flung to the floor like cheap glassware, shattering one after another.

At dinner time, a maid knocked nervously on the Sovereign’s bedroom door, a spotless serving cart beside her.

“Lady Alessia, the ‘beverage’ you requested is ready. Shall I serve your meal now?”

This so-called ‘beverage’ was a plasma drink processed from animal blood, developed by a mysterious organization for patients like Alessia infected with the vampire bat virus.

Available in multiple flavors like supermarket drinks, it carried only a faint metallic hint of blood beneath artificial sweetness.

“Come in.”

Inside, Alessia looked exhausted and irritable. The floor lay in disarray; vases, books—anything throwable had become targets for her frustration.

Wealth meant she never spared a thought for broken trinkets.

The maid set the plasma beverage on the table and bent to tidy the mess. Ignoring it would mean punishment later—disaster awaited.

“Get out… Leave me alone. No one disturbs me tonight.”

The Sovereign clearly wanted to sulk in solitude—and the maid was relieved to comply. All feared close attendance; one misstep meant scolding and emotional withdrawal.

“Yes, Lady Alessia. Should you need anything…”

She slipped out as nervously as she’d arrived, closing the door softly.

…

The plasma beverage sat in a transparent dark glass bottle, resembling aged red wine or dark juice from afar.

She’d lost all interest in it after tasting real human blood.

Though unspoken, her body already craved *someone’s* blood.

Compared to Kanata’s fresh blood, this beverage was like cheap mineral water beside fine wine—a hollow imitation.

She hadn’t touched it in ages.

But now, her throat burned. Daily withdrawal symptoms surged; water was useless. Only blood offered relief.

Alessia pried the metal cap open with a bottle opener and sniffed habitually.

The scent was faint—overwhelmed by cloying fruit syrup and artificial flavor. It held no allure.

She missed that night. Missed Kanata’s smooth shoulders, her collarbone, the rich blood pulsing just beneath delicate skin.

“Damn it… Why? *Why?*"

She hated this dependent version of herself. Was she truly so weak she couldn’t survive without Kanata’s blood… her body?

For a Sovereign, such need was humiliating.

Irritation and possessiveness churned hot within her.

“Die, Kanata Himemiya!”

She hurled the bottle against the wall. Glass shattered; crimson liquid splattered across the floor.

Alessia was done waiting.

She would make that reckless girl understand: in Falling Cherry City, survival meant one thing—you *must* look up to her. And *only* her.