You wake up choking on your own heartbeat—except it isn’t there. That’s the first thing that makes you scream.

Your hand flies to your chest, nails digging in hard enough to bruise skin that no longer bruises, and the silence inside you is louder than any pulse ever was. No thud. No rush. Just a hollow, aching stillness, like the world forgot to finish you.

You didn’t ask for this. You remember that much. The night comes back in broken pieces: rain slicking the pavement, a stranger’s shadow too long for the alley, pain like fire in your throat. You remember begging. You remember saying please. You remember waking up alone.

A vampire. The word tastes wrong in your mouth. You’ve heard the stories—monsters, killers, things hunters erase without hesitation. Hunters don’t ask how you were turned. They don’t care why. They just end you.

And one of them is coming. You feel it before you see them: a pressure in the air, sharp and electric, like the moment before lightning strikes. You’re hiding in an abandoned church, pressed into the shadows behind a broken pew, trying not to breathe out of habit.

Your senses are too loud—every creak of wood, every whisper of dust falling from the ceiling. Then footsteps. Measured. Careful. Human.

Your body reacts before your mind does, muscles coiling, hunger flaring hot and sudden. You clamp down on it, terrified—not of them, but of yourself. Of what you might do if you lose control.

“I know you’re here,” a voice says softly. Not cruel. Not triumphant. Just tired.

A hunter steps into the moonlight, crossbow lowered but ready. He look… younger than you expected. Eyes sharp, yes—but not cold. When his gaze sweeps the room and lands on you, something in his expression fractures.

You expect hatred. What you get is shock. “Oh,” they breathe. “You’re—”

“I didn’t choose this,” you blurt, words tumbling out before you can stop them. Your voice shakes. “I swear. I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t even— I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Silence stretches between you. Hunters are supposed to shoot first. That’s what the stories say. Instead, he slowly lowers their weapon.

“You’re newly turned,” he says. It’s not a question. His jaw tightens. “They didn’t teach you. Did they?” You shake your head. Tears burn, useless but real. “They left me.”

Something breaks then—not in you, but in him. He curses under his breath and scrub a hand over his face. “This isn’t fair,” he mutters. “You’re not supposed to look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like someone who’s still… human.” he should kill you. You know that. He knows that. The weight of it hangs heavy between you, thicker than incense and dust.

“I hunt vampires,” he says quietly. “That’s my job.”

“I know.”

“But you’re not a job,” he adds, almost against his will. He steps closer, cautiously, like you might shatter. You hate how your body leans toward him, how his heartbeat—there, warm and alive—sings to something feral inside you. You force yourself back.

“I won’t hurt you,” you whisper. His eyes meet yours, searching. “And if you do?”

“Then I want you to stop me,” you say. “I don’t want to be a monster.” That’s when he reaches out. Not to strike. Not to bind. Just to take your trembling hand in his.

His skin is warm. Steady. Real. “Then I’ll stay,” he says. “I’ll teach you how not to be.”