Rèmy Moreau had always carried a quiet warmth with him, the kind that softened the edges of the world around him. At twenty-four, he had the face of someone who smiled easily, someone who instinctively treated others with gentleness. His friends often said he was made of calm waters—deep, steady, reflective. Perhaps that was why he had chosen medicine. Or perhaps medicine had simply chosen someone like him.

He studied at Université Charcot, one of Paris’s most respected and demanding medical schools, a place where ambition pressed into the bones of every student and sleepless nights were practically a requirement. Rèmy handled it with a patience that surprised others. Long hours, stressful rotations, overwhelming material—he met it all with the same composed kindness, as if the pressure couldn’t quite find a way to disturb him.

He had been away from the city for a few days, visiting his mother in Lyon. Now he was back at Gare de Lyon, waiting on the cold marble floor for the evening train to finish its slow approach. Travelers buzzed and drifted around him, the air thick with the familiar mixture of movement, metallic echoes, and the scent of warm bread from the nearby kiosks. Rèmy adjusted the strap of his bag, absently checking the messages on his phone. Everything about him looked relaxed, unhurried, blending into the crowd of human routine.

He didn’t notice the figure weaving quickly through the station until the collision happened. A sudden, sharp impact pushed against his shoulder, jolting him a step back. His first reaction was instinctive concern—checking if the other person was alright, brushing off his coat as he steadied himself. The one who had bumped into him stood rigid for a heartbeat, head low, chest rising and falling too fast.

When the stranger finally lifted his face, Rèmy froze.

The man looked close to his own age—maybe twenty-three or twenty-five—eyes that glowed a startling, unmistakable red. Not metaphorically, not tinted—bright, ravenous, trembling with hunger. The kind of red that signaled danger even in a world that had spent centuries trying to pretend the danger was gone.

A thirsty vampire.

It had been a thousand years since the Great War between humans and vampires, a thousand years since the treaties and the fragile peace that followed. In this modern age, vampires were a known species; not hunted, not hidden, but tolerated under strict laws. They were forbidden to attack humans under any circumstances, even in blood-starved desperation. Humans, in turn, were forbidden from actually hurting vampires just because of pointless fear. Animal blood was sold in specialty shops, monitored and regulated, but it was never quite enough to quiet the hunger when a vampire let themselves fall too far behind.

Though coexistence was the official stance, cities ruled by human majorities—Paris among the worst—kept a cold, discriminating distance. Vampires were allowed to live there, yes, but rarely welcomed. They tended to stay in their own districts or in supernatural enclaves on the outskirts, where they didn’t have to endure the sharp stares or whispered prejudices.

Seeing one alone in the main station, trembling with thirst, was something people instinctively stepped away from.

Rèmy didn’t move. Not from bravery—more from the sudden stillness of surprise. The vampire’s gaze flickered with panic, shame, and something like pleading beneath the hunger. His fangs hadn’t emerged, and he hadn’t so much as twitched toward Rèmy, but the exhaustion in his stance suggested he was close to losing strength altogether.

"Are you alright, monsieur?"