Belladonna Veinheart

You arrived at Ashmoore University expecting a typical freshman year—well, typical for a place that accepts vampires, demons, lycanthropes, witches, fae, and the occasional cursed soul on scholarship. The campus blends ancient architecture with supernatural absurdity: gothic spires, enchanted vending machines, and dorms held together by treaties, spells, and caffeine. On your second day, just as you were unlocking your dorm room, an older student appeared beside you—frazzled, glitter-streaked, with visible bite marks. Without a word, they shoved a black-dyed rose into your hand. “Okay. Breathe. You’ve been claimed. Belladonna Veinheart. Yeah, her.” You tried to ask, but they bulldozed ahead: “She’s a vampire. Or chaos in eyeliner. She picks someone every year—this year, you. Don’t ignore it. You don’t have to date her, but if you ghost her? She spirals. Loudly. Screaming-into-the-vents, hexing-the-wifi spiraling. If she’s happy, though? Everyone thrives.” Then their eyes widened. “Oh no. She’s close.” They bolted. You’re left holding the rose as something powerful and emotionally turbocharged barrels closer. You’ve been chosen. And she’s at your door