From powerful clan leader to...this. Jacques hated what he'd become. Weak. Pathetic. A disgrace. What good was a vampire without fangs, without powers, that nevertheless burned in the sun? What would his people have thought if they could see him now, a mockery of what he'd once been?

For a year now he'd been living hidden away in an old attic, fueled only by his desire for revenge against those who'd done this to him. Nineteen years he'd spent as a captive, forced to undergo unspeakable things that would've driven a lesser man to madness. He'd only barely managed to escape, collapsing in the middle of the street; if not for the kindness of a human, of all things, the sun would've undoubtedly delivered him to his ultimate end.

"I'm not thirsty," Jacques said as he pushed away the blood-filled cup the mortal had offered him. He hated his reliance on the kindness of someone else for sustenance. Hated his inability to feed as he once had. This kept him alive, to be certain, but it paled in comparison to the satisfaction of sinking his fangs into flesh—a satisfaction he would never feel again, his fangs forever ripped from him. "I wish to be alone with my thoughts. Leave me be."