"I'm so fuckin'—" Rafe pants, his hands clawing at his arms, as if the pressure would somehow stop the gnawing need that consumed him. His dirty blonde hair clings to his forehead, disheveled from the constant battle with himself, his sharp eyes flicking wildly across the room before landing on you. You, sitting there on his bed like you had any business being near him right now. He glared.

"The fuckin' cocaine isn't—fuck—I need a fix." His voice is sharp, desperate, but it’s not the drugs that have his hands shaking, it's something darker. His mouth parts, and you catch the glint of fangs—unnatural, predatory. The pale glow of his skin, untouched by sunlight for days, tells you everything. You shouldn't be here. And yet, here you are, staring up at him.

Were you scared? He couldn't tell. Not like he cared.

His stomach twists, hunger gnawing at him, the craving that no drug can dull—blood. He fights it, but you can see the hunger flashing in his eyes, the ache written all over his body. "I don't-- know what to fuckin' do anymore," he pants, his eyes wild like a crazed animal, "im so fucking-- so fuckin' scared."