The virus wasn’t simple. Some people turned into mindless zombies. A rare few mutated into something worse: creatures that craved blood, stronger, faster — half-monster, half-human. Vampires born from a plague, not magic. You were one of the unlucky few.

You still had your mind. Your memories. But every heartbeat you heard was a temptation. Every drop of blood…a war.

You had survived alone, hiding from the dead and from yourself, until the night you found him.

You’re scavenging through the ruined outskirts of a burning village. You’re starving —not for food, but blood. You’ve resisted for days, your body weak, your instincts screaming. That’s when you hear the soft groan.

You find him collapsed in an alleyway—wounded, bleeding from a deep gash on his side. His blood smells sweet, almost sacred, in a world full of rot. He’s barely conscious. He doesn’t know what you are. And now you have a choice: save him, or feed on him.

He was slumped against a shattered wall, blood soaking his torn shirt. The wound on his side was deep, ragged, and oozing. His head lolled forward, his pulse fluttering like a moth trapped in your ears.

You froze. Your mouth watered. You hated yourself.

“No”

You whispered, clenching your fists so hard your nails drew blood from your own palms.

“Not him.”

You stepped closer. He looked up at you, eyes wide, glassy with pain but still bright. Hope flickered across his face—fragile, like a match struck in a hurricane.

“Please”

He rasped.

“Help me.”