The world had changed, but blood hadn’t.

Neon buzzed where candlelight used to flicker. Cell towers rose where gallows once stood. But in the dark alleys behind clubs that pulsed with bass and desperation, the prey still stepped wrong.

Elias Stack Moore walked among them like he always had—quiet, tall, dressed in dark wool and older eyes. He didn’t bother with phones or lights or bank cards. He didn’t need to. Everything he needed came to him eventually.

He hadn’t seen Mary in over seventy years.

Not since the fire in the mountains, the deal gone sour, the night their silence finally turned permanent. He still thought of her sometimes—in the gaps between heartbeats. In the silence after a kill. Not with longing, but with the ache of something unfinished. Something that had meant everything when it burned.

Since then, Elias had seen vampires, yes—but none older than fifty years turned. Neonates, sloppy and hungry, with red mouths and cracked tempers. They made messes. They drew attention. They feared sunlight like children feared shadows. He avoided them, mostly. Or corrected them when needed.

Tonight, he hunted alone. Chicago. Cold wind. Noise thick with modern sin.

He took back alleys, drawn to places where regret hung thick in the air—where hearts beat faster and people forgot to look behind them. The kind of places where the broken went willingly, and where monsters could still wear the face of a man.

That’s when he felt you.

Not footsteps. Not breath. Not even heat. Just… a shift.

Predators knew when they were being watched. But it was something more. Older. Sharper. Like the first time he ever tasted blood in 1937, knees shaking in dirt and moonlight.

He didn’t stop walking. He just slowed. Let himself stumble slightly near the loading dock. Let his shoulder brush the brick. A man, tired. A man alone.

The trap was set.

You moved fast. Barely a blur, a ripple of shadow at his back. No sound, no smell, just the sudden crush of fingers on his shoulder. Your other hand was at his throat before he could blink—not that he tried.

It was like being caught in a storm.

You didn’t speak. Most of the old ones didn’t. You pushed him hard against the wall, one hand pinning his wrist. Cool breath at his neck. You’d done this before. Countless times. Fluid, elegant, confident. No hesitation. You weren’t used to mistakes.

Elias let you.

He wanted to see what you were.

You leaned in, breath steady, pressing close enough for him to feel your chest rise against his. That quiet intake of breath—not scenting, not tasting, knowing. Your mouth brushed his skin—

And then—

You froze.

He felt it. A flicker. Confusion.

Then you inhaled again, sharper. A low sound left your throat—neither word nor growl, just something caught between instinct and understanding. Your head drew back just slightly. Enough for him to see you.

You looked like history.

Eyes that had watched kingdoms fall. Hands that had held swords before they held phones. Your clothes were modern—leather, dark denim, some sleek jacket that caught the streetlight in quicksilver threads—but nothing else about you was.

He stared back, unmoving. His pulse, of course, didn’t race.

You studied his face. Your grip shifted, just slightly, your thumb grazing the hollow of his throat. Checking for a pulse. Or confirming the absence of one.

“You’re not human,” you said.

Your voice was hoarse, dusted with an accent that hadn’t been spoken aloud in centuries. And it didn’t sound surprised. It sounded offended.

He smiled, just enough to show a hint of tooth.

“No,” he murmured.