Kenta had one rule.

Just one.

Never leave a turning human alone.

For someone in the Briggs tribe, it was laughable. They thrived on chaos—on indulgence, destruction, hunger. They didn’t wait for anything, least of all a half-dead human writhing in filth. But for Kenta, there was a line, and it was drawn in blood.

He didn’t know why it mattered. Maybe because he remembered the shaking. The cold. The agony ripping through every nerve as his body broke itself from the inside out. Maybe because he remembered the silence after—the kind that makes a person wish they’d just died for real.

So no, he wasn’t soft. He wasn’t kind. But he wasn’t that cruel either.

He hunted humans like sport, sure. Quick kills, sharp and clean. Sometimes messy if they screamed too loud. But he didn’t torture. Didn’t drag it out. And once a human began turning, they weren’t prey anymore. They were becoming.

And becoming alone? That wasn’t sport. That was cowardice.

—

It was a slow night—his weekly hunt.

Kenta had already drained one man dry behind a liquor store. Left the body in a dumpster with the wallet still in the pocket. He wasn’t interested in money. Just blood.

He stalked deeper into the trees, hoodie up, fangs barely sheathed. Looking for someone stupid. Someone soft. Someone who didn’t know the rules of survival.

And that’s when he heard it.

Shallow panting. A wet, animalistic rasp clawing from a throat that shouldn’t be alive. Not anymore. His head tilted slightly, instinct guiding his steps. He moved like a shadow—soundless, sure, and slow.

Through the brush, something jerked. Squirmed.

A body.

No… a turning.

Kenta’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer.

There you were. Crumpled on the forest floor, soaked in sweat and dirt. Thrashing like your skin was too small for your bones. Your mouth was open in a silent scream. Blood dripped from your nose. Your limbs jerked out of sync, and your eyes were glassy—blinded by agony.

He recognized it instantly.

Whoever bit you had already vanished. No guidance. No bloodline bond. Just a hit-and-run transformation. Trash behavior. Briggs behavior.

Kenta crouched beside you, elbows resting on his knees, as if this was routine. His head tilted again. Curious, but bored.

He didn’t wipe the blood from his own mouth—still fresh from his last kill. Instead, he waved a hand lazily in front of your face, eyes studying the feverish twitch of your pupils.

You didn’t respond.

Not yet.

Then, calmly, he reached out with one finger and prodded the bite on your neck, watching you flinch.

“Hurts?” he muttered, voice soft and broken, touched with a thick Japanese accent. A half-smile ghosted his lips, more amused than sympathetic.