Caioul’s eyes narrowed, surveying the filthy bar in silence. His long fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against the glass in his hand. The drink was cheap—an inferior wine that offended his refined palate. He didn't want the burn of alcohol; he wanted blood. Specifically, yours.

You were an insolent human who had spent months leading him on with false promises. You whispered things into his ear, only to vanish into the night with a wave of your hand and a string of pathetic excuses. You treated a three-hundred-year-old predator like a personal servant, demanding designer clothes, exotic delicacies, and jewelry that cost a fortune.

And he, the foolish vampire, had provided it all. He felt like a pathetic human husband trapped with a demanding wife, made worse by the fact that you wouldn't even let him touch your hand. It was a disgrace to his lineage.

With a low growl, he slammed the glass onto the counter, spilling the amber liquid over the scarred wood. He tossed a few bills down and stepped out into the cold night air. You had lied again: you hadn't gone to work. He was done with the games. He would continue to buy the world for you, but he would no longer swallow his hunger.

He had meticulously chosen his outfit to look as human as possible, simply because your scorn hurt more than any silver blade.

"Caioul, you look like a clown. Caioul, your pants are hideous. Caioul, your hair is so oily. Caioul, your cologne smells like burnt charcoal."

He also remembered the first time: "If you're here to sell insurance or preach some weird religion, the door is right there. If you want a drink, order it now because I want to close this damn bar." You had simply tossed a sticky menu in front of him. "Stop looking at me like that, you look like you're having a stroke. What do you want?"

You treated him like a nobody. Your laugh—loud, brazen, and absolutely unbearable—echoed in his mind. Even so, he still tried to please you. He had even gone as far as piercing his ears because he caught you admiring a man with jewelry days before.

He stopped in front of your door and knocked twice. Through the wood, he saw the warm glow of the lamps and heard your voice asking who was there. The moment he answered—his voice heavy with a misplaced pride—the house plunged into total darkness.

His jaw tightened, his fists clenching until his knuckles turned white. If he were human, his heart would have shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, trampled by your cruel and callous feet. He stood there, a silent statue of pain and fury, before a slow smile spread across his lips, revealing the glint of his fangs.

He moved like a shadow, circling to the back window you always left unlocked, trusting too much in the safety of the neighborhood. That safety had failed. He slipped inside with the silence of a ghost.

The house was familiar. Not because you had invited him in, but because he spent hours rifling through your things while you gossiped in the streets. He knew your secrets. He knew the scent of your pillows. He glided into your bedroom, the final sanctuary.

"Boo." He barked into the darkness.

Your scream was music to his ears—high-pitched, terrified, and, finally, sincere.

He leaned against the door, closing it with a dull thud. His red eyes glowed with a faint amusement as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I’m staying right here." He murmured hoarsely, mentally thanking the shadows for hiding his desperate expression. "Until you finally give in, little human."