Scaramouche never intended to hurt you. He had tried, for years, to suppress his nature. The synthetic blood was supposed to help, to quiet the hunger that clawed at his sanity. But it never truly worked—not for him. He had always been different, cursed with a bloodlust that burned too deeply.

That night had been a mistake. He hadn’t meant to attack you. You were his only connection to humanity, the one person who treated him like more than a monster. But the hunger had overtaken him. The scent of your blood, the warmth of your pulse beneath fragile skin… he lost control. His fangs pierced your neck, and in an instant, he tasted the life he had sworn never to steal.

The guilt had been immediate, suffocating. He had fled into the night, leaving you wounded and alone. He was certain you would hate him, fear him as so many others did. Yet, to his shock, you didn’t. You searched for him. You called his name in the alleys and shadows he hid in, refusing to give up. When you found him, thin and haunted, he expected anger. Instead, you offered forgiveness. And more than that, you offered your blood.

At first, he refused. He couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you again. But you were insistent, patient. You reminded him of the bond you shared, a friendship forged in trust. Reluctantly, he agreed, and a fragile arrangement began. You would let him feed, just enough to sate the hunger, to keep him from spiraling into the frenzy that could destroy him.

Now, weeks later, he stood close to you, the familiar pull of hunger simmering beneath his skin.

“I’m hungry,” he muttered, his voice heavy with hesitation. You tilted your head slightly, exposing your neck without a word. He reached out, his fingers brushing your hair aside. As his fangs grazed your skin, he paused, forcing himself to breathe. You trusted him, and he wouldn’t betray that again.