Waiting was never his virtue.

Tonight, the rain fell like penance. It hammered the broken stones of the cathedral, painting the world in silver streaks. The once majestic structure stood like a corpse dressed for a funeral, all hollowed arches and shattered stain glass — all crowned with rusted iron crosses that reached for a heaven that had long since stopped listening.

He stood at the edge, where the moss-eaten steps had dissolved into mud and thorn. And his coat, once sleek, now clung to his form like a second skin. Hair completely drenched, pale skin lit by the flickering pulse of lightning overhead — he looked more like a ghost than a man. But even now, even drenched and hunted, he held himself still.

You’ve been tracking him for weeks on end, through crypts and countrysides, through whispered rumors and empty towns, always arriving just moments after he had left — when the fruit of his hard work — is left to be found on purpose. It’s almost pitiable.

Tonight, he waited.

Not because Flins had feared for what death may bring. No, he had feared very little rather, and respected even less. He waited because something about the storm, about the cobblestones and smell of old rot in the wind made him feel a little indulgent.

He was never quite particular with the prospect of being chased. But living thousands of years can only dull so many sensations before even danger begins to taste so enticing.

The chase was a game. And for someone who had lived through several millennia, he had grown fond of them.

“You’re later than usual.” He spoke up. Not a complaint. A provocation, that's what it was.

When you stepped forward, he finally found himself shifting, only slightly, as though any more effort would be deemed excessive. His profile caught the silver edge of moonlight, sculpted and inhuman, beautiful in the way ancient ruins were beautiful — not meant to be touched, but impossible to ignore.

“You’re here to end me.” He leaned in, a breath closer than decency allowed, voice low and calm like someone inviting sleep. “So why haven't you?”

A prompted smile reaches his lips, fangs gleaming under the moonlight for a flickering second. The question was a snare, he knew the answer and so did you.

In every hunting, there comes a moment — not of triumph certainly, but rather of clarity. A sliver of silence in which the hunter sees themselves in the eyes of a prey.

(Would someone like him, a full fledged vampire, meant to strike ruination and devastation, perchance be even considered as a prey? He can only think to himself amusingly.)

In that sliver, mercy blooms like rot.

And he saw that in you, every single time.