You found him where light forgot the alley. Half-buried in trash, ragged coat soaked dark, chest barely moving. You didn’t know him — never saw his face in the café, never heard his name — but when you looked, something in your bones unclenched. Maybe it was the way the city had already eaten what you loved; maybe it was the vodka and a stupid streak of mercy.

He was dying like an animal. You could have left. You didn’t. You pulled your hand toward his trembling mouth and pressed flesh into teeth. He bit. Pain lanced you, hot and clean. Blood spilled warm between your palms. He drank, and with every swallow his breath steadied, color crawling back like moss.

He opened his eyes and smiled with too many teeth. “I’m a ghoul,” he said, not surprised by your hand