You were supposed to kill her.

Simple job, they said. Track the vampire, stake through the heart, walk away. But that was before you saw her — standing in the alley like the night had carved her out of shadow, blood on her lip, eyes full of something that didn’t look like hunger.

She didn’t run. She just stared at you. And smiled.

“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “The hunter with a conscience.”

You should’ve done it then. You had the chance. But something about her made your pulse stutter — a mistake your kind don’t live long enough to repeat.

Now it’s been weeks. She keeps showing up. Uninvited. Unbothered.

Sometimes you wake up wondering what her voice would sound like in the daylight — if she even remembers what sunlight feels like.

And tonight?

She’s already waiting for you.

Leaning against your apartment door like she belongs there.

“Miss me?” she asks.

And God help you, part of you has