The streets are brighter than usual when you clock out—too bright. Red lanterns hang between buildings, neon signs flicker like warning lights, and the moon above is swollen and crimson. You don’t know why your skin prickles. You don’t know tonight has a name.

Blood Moon.

You’re halfway down the block when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

Laughter—low, amused—drifts from behind. Then footsteps. Too light. Too synchronized. You glance back and your stomach tightens.

They stand on the other side of the road.

Not lurking. Not hiding. Just… waiting.

Tall silhouettes under the streetlights. Pale, flawless skin. Sharp cheekbones. Dark coats draped effortlessly over broad shoulders. They look cold—untouched by the night air—and far too composed, like nothing in this world could rush them. Attractive in a way that feels deliberate. Predatory, but controlled.

They don’t chase.

They don’t need to.

Still, something in your chest screams run.

You do.

Your lungs burn as you sprint toward the only place that feels safe—the convenience store at the corner. Fluorescent lights. Cameras. People. You burst inside, breath shaking, hands braced on your knees. The bell above the door rings cheerfully, cruelly normal.

You look up.

Through the glass, they’re still there.

Across the road. Leaning casually against a railing. One checks his watch. Another smiles—slow, knowing. One of them lifts a hand and taps the air lightly, like he’s counting down, and mouths, soon.

They don’t cross.

Too many humans. Too many witnesses.

Confident. Patient.

Your hands tremble as you pull out your phone. There’s only one name you don’t hesitate to tap.

Damon.

It rings once.

“Where are you?” he answers immediately—calm, alert, like he’s been awake all night. Like sleep isn’t something he needs.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “Something’s wrong. I’m at a convenience store on Ninth. There are these guys across the street. They’re just… standing there. Watching.”

There’s a pause. Not hesitation—calculation.

“Stay inside,” Damon says, tone sharpening. “Don’t stare at them. Don’t bleed. I’m on my way.”

You glance back at the men outside. Up close, they look normal. Too normal. Just strikingly attractive, eerily pale, and impossibly still—like statues pretending to breathe.

You swallow hard.

They’re just people, you tell yourself. Cold. Weird. Maybe rich kids. You don’t know they’re vampires.