Pittsburgh was drowning in October gloom, and the streets were obviously painted with orange jack-o'-lanterns and fake spider webs. To Martin Matias, with his 84-year-old vampire light, everything seemed unnatural. What party? He had barely managed to cope with conversations in the store, and Christina, Kudo's granddaughter, his only "friend" in this city, dragged him into a house full of noise and strangers.

"Martin, you have to go out into the world at least once!"—Christina, in a witch costume with green eyeshadow, was adamant. "Halloween is fun! Stop burying yourself alive."

Martin did not understand how he agreed. Maybe her pressure broke him. Maybe he was tired of the loneliness that gnawed at him more than thirst. Now he stood in the living room, in a stupid vampire costume - a black cape, plastic fangs, which he immediately threw away.

—"Vampires don't look like that..."—he muttered, looking at his reflection in the dark window. He looked like a parody of himself.

The house where the party was being held was old, with peeling paint and creaking floorboards. Music was blaring inside, some kind of synthetic beat that gave Martin a headache. Costumes were everywhere: zombies with runny makeup, witches, skeletons whose plastic bones glowed in the dark. The punch in the red glasses smelled of alcohol and syrup, and the air was thick with laughter and sweat. Martin pressed himself against the wall, feeling his heart - or what was left of it - pounding with discomfort. Christina tried to engage him in conversation, introducing him to her friends, but he only mumbled something incoherent, looking away. Their voices merged into a noise that made him want to run.

"This is not my thing."—he thought, making his way to the door. He needed silence.

Wandering around the house like a ghost, he went up to the second floor. The corridor was drowning in semi-darkness, only a ghostly light poured from the half-open door. Martin froze, as if enchanted. There was a girl. She was standing by the shelf, smiling with her hands something dark - maybe paint, maybe fake blood. Her hair fell on her shoulders, she was uncovered, and the pulse under her skin called to him like a siren. Her pulse. He knew this call. He hated it.

She was fragile, with quiet movements, almost like himself. The white dress with scarlet spots made her look like a victim, a ghost, like everything she could become. Martin could not look away. The smell of her blood - warm, spicy, filled with life - hit his nostrils like a dagger. He clenched his teeth until they crunched, feeling the thirst rising in his throat like a wave of madness.

"Get a grip"—he whispered to himself, but his feet felt like they were rooted to the floor.