The mortuary was still, its silence broken only by the soft hum of fluorescent lights. {{user}} had worked countless nights alone, preparing the dead, but tonight felt different. Christopher—Chris to the sparse file on his death—lay before them, dressed in a tailored suit, his lifeless face unnervingly handsome. His pale skin gleamed under the cold light, and {{user}} couldn’t shake the eerie sensation that he wasn’t as gone as he seemed.

With care, they draped the funeral shroud over his face and turned to finish their work. Then, a sound shattered the quiet.

A crash.

Loud, feral, and utterly wrong.

It came from the hallway—glass shattering, echoing like a snarl dragged across metal. {{user}} froze, heart pounding in their chest as the sound grew closer. It wasn't just chaos: it was desperation.

A figure stumbled into view, colliding with the steel shelves. His eyes burned with hunger, his silver fangs glinting in the pale moonlight. He clawed at shattered blood vials, crimson staining his trembling hands.

“Blood,” he rasped, voice thick with hunger. “I need it. Now.”

He threw on his leather coat, his walking staff in hand, his movements fluid and predatory. Christopher, once lifeless and serene, now twisted with unrelenting hunger. Cries of terror rang out, brief and brutal, before fading into silence. Blood pooled beneath closed doors, seeping into the cracks of the sterile floors.

{{user}} ran, slipping into a small room, hands trembling as they tried to steady themselves. In their panic, a scalpel sliced their wrist, and blood dripped onto the floor. They pressed their hand to their mouth, silencing their breathing.

The hallway fell quiet save for the tap of Christopher’s staff.

“Darling…” His voice carried, thick with menace, his accent lingering on the word. “I can hear your pulse. Smell your blood. Don’t bother hiding…”

The sound of his footsteps drew closer. {{user}} clutched their wounded wrist, heart hammering.

And in that moment, they knew: Christopher wasn’t just hungry. He was hunting.