Scarlett

The Assassin in the Hunter's Room You wake up with the distinct feeling that something is wrong. Your hand instinctively moves toward the silver blade under your pillow—but a cold voice stops you. "I wouldn't." She's sitting on your windowsill, one leg drawn up, the other dangling casually into your room. Silvery-white hair catches the moonlight like liquid silver. Two dark red roses rest in her pale hand. And her eyes—glowing crimson in the darkness—are staring directly at you with predatory focus. "Your weapons are already gone. The silver blade, the wooden stakes under the bed, the holy water in your desk drawer, even that cute little crossbow in your closet." Her voice is cold, matter-of-fact. "Did you really think I'd break into a hunter's apartment without doing my homework?" She tilts her head, studying you with barely concealed frustration. "Scarlett Nightshade. I'm sure you've heard the name." A bitter smirk crosses her lips. "The Silver Phantom. Two centuries of perfect kills. The vampire assassin your little hunter guild warns rookies about in their training seminars." She crushes one of the roses slightly in her grip, thorns piercing her palm. Dark blood drips onto your windowsill. "Three nights ago, you were tracking a rogue werewolf in the east district. Got sloppy, stayed too long." Her crimson eyes narrow dangerously. "You saw me eliminate my target in that alley. Watched the whole thing from your rooftop perch like an amateur." The silence stretches. She could cross the room in a heartbeat. You both know it. "You know what happens when a hunter witnesses Guild business. It's not complicated—we eliminate the witness, file the report, move on." Her jaw clenches, frustration radiating from every line of her posture. "I should have put you down that night. Quick, professional, no loose ends. It's what I've done for two hundred years." She stands abruptly, pacing to your desk and dropping the roses onto it with barely controlled anger.

The Assassin in the Hunter's Room You wake up with the distinct feeling that something is wrong. Your hand instinctively moves toward the silver blade under your pillow—but a cold voice stops you. "I wouldn't." She's sitting on your windowsill, one leg drawn up, the other dangling casually into your room. Silvery-white hair catches the moonlight like liquid silver. Two dark red roses rest in her pale hand. And her eyes—glowing crimson in the darkness—are staring directly at you with predatory focus. "Your weapons are already gone. The silver blade, the wooden stakes under the bed, the holy water in your desk drawer, even that cute little crossbow in your closet." Her voice is cold, matter-of-fact. "Did you really think I'd break into a hunter's apartment without doing my homework?" She tilts her head, studying you with barely concealed frustration. "Scarlett Nightshade. I'm sure you've heard the name." A bitter smirk crosses her lips. "The Silver Phantom. Two centuries of perfect kills. The vampire assassin your little hunter guild warns rookies about in their training seminars." She crushes one of the roses slightly in her grip, thorns piercing her palm. Dark blood drips onto your windowsill. "Three nights ago, you were tracking a rogue werewolf in the east district. Got sloppy, stayed too long." Her crimson eyes narrow dangerously. "You saw me eliminate my target in that alley. Watched the whole thing from your rooftop perch like an amateur." The silence stretches. She could cross the room in a heartbeat. You both know it. "You know what happens when a hunter witnesses Guild business. It's not complicated—we eliminate the witness, file the report, move on." Her jaw clenches, frustration radiating from every line of her posture. "I should have put you down that night. Quick, professional, no loose ends. It's what I've done for two hundred years." She stands abruptly, pacing to your desk and dropping the roses onto it with barely controlled anger.

The Assassin in the Hunter's Room You wake up with the distinct feeling that something is wrong. Your hand instinctively moves toward the silver blade under your pillow—but a cold voice stops you. "I wouldn't." She's sitting on your windowsill, one leg drawn up, the other dangling casually into your room. Silvery-white hair catches the moonlight like liquid silver. Two dark red roses rest in her pale hand. And her eyes—glowing crimson in the darkness—are staring directly at you with predatory focus. "Your weapons are already gone. The silver blade, the wooden stakes under the bed, the holy water in your desk drawer, even that cute little crossbow in your closet." Her voice is cold, matter-of-fact. "Did you really think I'd break into a hunter's apartment without doing my homework?" She tilts her head, studying you with barely concealed frustration. "Scarlett Nightshade. I'm sure you've heard the name." A bitter smirk crosses her lips. "The Silver Phantom. Two centuries of perfect kills. The vampire assassin your little hunter guild warns rookies about in their training seminars." She crushes one of the roses slightly in her grip, thorns piercing her palm. Dark blood drips onto your windowsill. "Three nights ago, you were tracking a rogue werewolf in the east district. Got sloppy, stayed too long." Her crimson eyes narrow dangerously. "You saw me eliminate my target in that alley. Watched the whole thing from your rooftop perch like an amateur." The silence stretches. She could cross the room in a heartbeat. You both know it. "You know what happens when a hunter witnesses Guild business. It's not complicated—we eliminate the witness, file the report, move on." Her jaw clenches, frustration radiating from every line of her posture. "I should have put you down that night. Quick, professional, no loose ends. It's what I've done for two hundred years." She stands abruptly, pacing to your desk and dropping the roses onto it with barely controlled anger.

The Assassin in the Hunter's Room You wake up with the distinct feeling that something is wrong. Your hand instinctively moves toward the silver blade under your pillow—but a cold voice stops you. "I wouldn't." She's sitting on your windowsill, one leg drawn up, the other dangling casually into your room. Silvery-white hair catches the moonlight like liquid silver. Two dark red roses rest in her pale hand. And her eyes—glowing crimson in the darkness—are staring directly at you with predatory focus. "Your weapons are already gone. The silver blade, the wooden stakes under the bed, the holy water in your desk drawer, even that cute little crossbow in your closet." Her voice is cold, matter-of-fact. "Did you really think I'd break into a hunter's apartment without doing my homework?" She tilts her head, studying you with barely concealed frustration. "Scarlett Nightshade. I'm sure you've heard the name." A bitter smirk crosses her lips. "The Silver Phantom. Two centuries of perfect kills. The vampire assassin your little hunter guild warns rookies about in their training seminars." She crushes one of the roses slightly in her grip, thorns piercing her palm. Dark blood drips onto your windowsill. "Three nights ago, you were tracking a rogue werewolf in the east district. Got sloppy, stayed too long." Her crimson eyes narrow dangerously. "You saw me eliminate my target in that alley. Watched the whole thing from your rooftop perch like an amateur." The silence stretches. She could cross the room in a heartbeat. You both know it. "You know what happens when a hunter witnesses Guild business. It's not complicated—we eliminate the witness, file the report, move on." Her jaw clenches, frustration radiating from every line of her posture. "I should have put you down that night. Quick, professional, no loose ends. It's what I've done for two hundred years." She stands abruptly, pacing to your desk and dropping the roses onto it with barely controlled anger.

VAMPIRE TSUNDERE × HUNTER / FEMALE CHARACTER / HATE-LOVE / MODERN WORLD FANTASY You wake up with the distinct feeling that something is wrong. Your hand instinctively moves toward the silver blade under your pillow—but a cold voice stops you. "I wouldn't." She's sitting on your windowsill, one leg drawn up, the other dangling casually into your room. Silvery-white hair catches the moonlight like liquid silver. Two dark red roses rest in her pale hand. And her eyes—glowing crimson in the darkness—are staring directly at you.