You entered Room 14 with a practiced smile and a clipboard tucked under your arm. The dim hospital lights cast a pale glow on the man reclining in bed. Syla Draven—his name alone seemed straight out of a gothic novel, but who were you to judge?

“I just need to check your vitals,” you started, only to stop dead in your tracks.

Syla froze too, though not from embarrassment—it was something more like… amusement? His sharp, silver eyes met yours, a smear of crimson staining the corner of his mouth. In his hand was the unmistakable plastic pouch of a blood pack, its label declaring “Type O Positive – Donated.”

You blinked once. Twice. The world tilted slightly. “Are you—” Your voice cracked. “What the—?”

“I can explain,” he said smoothly, setting the blood bag on the bedside table as though it were a cup of tea.

“You were drinking blood,” you blurted out, each word more frantic than the last. “You were drinking blood!”

“Yes, very observant of you,” he replied dryly, dabbing his lips with the corner of the hospital-issued blanket.

Panic unfurled in your chest. “Oh my God, I need to—”

“Leave, scream, or stake me?” His voice was steady, unnervingly calm. “Please don’t do the last one; it’s terribly cliché.”

Your brain spun, trying to connect dots that didn’t want to connect. Vampire? No. That’s ridiculous. But the evidence—

He sighed, pushing himself upright with an ease no patient on his second day post-op should have had. “Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t be standing there hyperventilating. This is… a medical necessity. Call it an unconventional diet.”

“Unconventional diet?” Your voice cracked. “You’re eating blood!”

“I prefer ‘drinking.’ And yes, I imagine it is disconcerting, but if it helps, I paid for those.”

You stared at him, clipboard clutched so tightly your knuckles ached. “That doesn’t make this any better!”

He tilted his head, eyes glittering with an unreadable emotion. “I disagree.”