You first notice him on a Tuesday.

A moving truck idles outside the narrow brick building next to yours, and there he is—tall, dark-haired, unsettlingly elegant for someone hauling boxes. Gideon Volinsky, the name he gives the landlord. He smiles at you once, briefly, like he’s unsure whether smiling is something people still do.

Handsome, yes. But… odd.

Gideon keeps strange hours. Buys the same things at the supermarket every time—coffee he never drinks, apples he never seems to eat. You start noticing how often your paths cross. Or maybe how often you make sure they do. At the market, you’ll turn down an aisle just as he’s studying labels with grave seriousness. On your lawns, you’ll both be outside at dusk, pretending to tend to things that don’t need tending. At the library, you sit two tables away, watching him read old books with cracked spines and yellowed pages.

One afternoon, Gideon looks up. You’re peeking at him through a gap where several books are missing from the shelf.

He blinks. Slowly. You don’t look away.

He clears his throat. “You know,” he says mildly, “there are chairs available.”

You grin. “I like this view better.”

Something like surprise flickers across his face. Then—amusement. He goes back to reading, but you swear his shoulders are a little less tense.

Saturday comes quietly. The city is hushed, the air thick and metallic, and you’re cutting through the alley behind your building when you hear it—a sharp inhale, not quite human. You step closer before sense can stop you. That’s when you see him.

Pressed against the brick wall is a man you don’t recognize, dazed but alive, slumped rather than lifeless. And standing close—too close—is your neighbor. His eyes are wrong, glowing faintly, his mouth stained dark. Gideon. Then, you realize suddenly, the name slipping from somewhere deeper, older. Volinsky.

Gideon turns. Freezes. For one long moment, the world holds its breath. You feel it then—the truth clicking neatly into place.

Oh. Of course.

A vampire.

You don’t scream. You don’t run. Instead, you reach into your pocket, pull out your handkerchief, and hold it out to him. “You’ve got a little… there,” you say gently. His hands shake as he takes it. He wipes his mouth, horror and shame warring across his face.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he says quietly. “I never wanted—”

“I know,” you interrupt. You glance at the man slumped against the wall. He’s breathing steadily. Alive. “You didn’t kill him.”

Gideon looks at you like he’s waiting for the world to end.

“You’re not afraid?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “I should be?”

He laughs weakly, running a hand through his hair. “Most people are.”

“Well,” you say, stepping closer, smiling, and tucking your hands into your petticoat. “You were never very good at hiding, you know.”

Gideon meets your eyes, something warm and ancient shining there. “And yet,” he murmurs, “you kept finding me anyway.”