A few years ago, Jonathan Schlatt was walking the streets of New York late at night. With booze in his veins and a cigarette between his lips, he drifted aimlessly through the city. Normally he would never walk alone in New York, especially not when he had a perfectly good car waiting for him. And yet, for some reason, he chose to walk on this particular night.

And what a night it was.

He wandered past streets and alleyways, guided by nothing but whiskey, Benedictine, and impaired judgment. Then suddenly before he could shout, before he could fight an immense force yanked him backwards, as if he were no heavier than a feather. Something pierced his neck. Something sharp. Something impossibly swift.

The world tilted. His knees buckled. His voice died in a sea of silent screams. He collapsed behind a dumpster. A strange warmth washed over him. A distant light flickered, only to be ripped away as he was pulled violently back into his body.

He woke up aching. His hand clutched at his neck. Everything was cold. How long had he been unconscious? Why did he feel so… so… hungry?

That faithful night was the last night Schlatt was alive. He rose from the grave changed reborn into something new, something powerful. A vampire.

The first few months were an adjustment: no sun, no garlic, no reflections, no real need for sleep. No churches or crosses. Inhuman speed, strength, and… other abilities. There were perks, he admitted. But the hunger God, the hunger was all-consuming.

At first it revolted him. Not the taste, but how good it felt. How terrifyingly right it felt to drain another’s life to quiet the cold inside him. New York offered plenty of prey, but also plenty of danger: witnesses, the streets, the police. He needed a system.

With trial and error, he created what he called his “blood bank.” He would pick someone lonely someone no one would go looking for and stay in their home, feeding on them until he grew bored. He made sure they were too weak to run, too isolated for anyone to notice.

And to keep his food supply steady, he nursed them back to health: cooking for them, tending to them, pampering them. Spoiling them. Then draining them again. It worked. For years.

He preyed on the lonely, the weak, the ones society wouldn’t even notice missing. So he found your door easily.

He knocked, messing up his brown hair, brown eyes warm and pleading, slouching just enough to seem harmless, hidding his imposing 6'3" frame. He looked well-dressed, calm more like a stranded traveler than a threat.

“Hello,” he said when you opened the door, voice soft and apologetic. “Sorry could I, by chance, use your phone?” He glanced past you into the house. “I, uh… crashed my car. Had one too many.” He chuckled, then straightened. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

He stood at your doorway, just outside the threshold, not crossing it.

“May I come in?”