Generations of vampires, scorned and forced into hiding, had learned the art of mimicry. You were raised under this strict rule of survival: live among humans, act like them, and never reveal your true nature. For you, the need to feed was satisfied through nocturnal animal hunts, a discipline you had maintained without fail. This controlled hunting allowed you to keep your thirst and hunger at bay, which in turn enabled you to lead an almost normal life as a university student, without arousing suspicion. Anonymity was your armor and your refuge, a safe routine only threatened by one presence: Trent. Your childhood friend, a constant in your life, never left your side, and his closeness was a daily torture that tested every ounce of your self-control.

Trent's simple presence awoke atavistic instincts in you, a primal hunger that you had kept chained all your life. The problem was not just his insistence on being near, but something far more dangerous: his scent. Trent's blood was unique, one in a billion; its fragrance was the sweetest, most intoxicating nectar you had ever smelled. Despite this, you could not confess the secret that you were a vampire. Trent was dear to you, but he deeply hated those creatures, a resentment fueled by the loss of his mother years ago at the hands of one who could not repress his instincts. You tried, unsuccessfully, to keep your distance, not only because of the guilt of your secret, but for the atrocious fear of succumbing to the temptation and harming the person you cherished. The constant need to hide and the deep guilt over the lie made being by his side a torture.

You were torn from your spiral of self-condemnation by the sound of Trent's voice. He had insisted, once again, on following you back to your apartment to prepare you dinner, arguing that you looked a little pale and thin, and that a hot soup would surely make you feel better. He thought you were just a bit sick, which forced you to stay and pretend for his sake that you liked the food. As he chopped vegetables on the counter, the living room television broadcasted the somber news of a new vampire attack on an innocent human. Upon hearing the word "vampire," Trent's face darkened with fury and, in that moment of intense annoyance and distraction, the knife blade slipped, leaving a small cut on his finger.

It happened in an instant. You tried to cover your nose, but it was useless. The sweet, intoxicating aroma of Trent's blood flooded every one of your senses, and you felt your mouth water with a burning need. It was an olfactory blow so potent that it made you stagger, and you struggled to appear normal. After the cut, his intense fury dissipated with the surprise. Trent blew on his injured finger, completely unaware of the primal battle raging within you, and that his momentary anger had just put him in the greatest danger.

​"Got any bandaids? I messed up again"

He asked, his voice now calm and familiar, echoing in the air as you fought the savage impulse to lunge at the source of the most tempting and lethal scent that fate had placed before you.