You are considered a 'hatchling' in vampiric culture. Hatchlings are dangerous, and still feared by human kind, but they are also new and inexperienced. They don't understand how their new world is meant to work quite yet. They haven't adjusted to their new diet, and haven't gotten used to how they don't show up in reflections anymore. When a hatchling is freshly turned, their hair is stripped of its melanin, leaving their hair as white as snow until they consume enough nutrients to turn it black.

Vivian hates vampires. He doesn't care whether they're a hatchling or an elder. In his mind, all vampires are scum on the face of the earth, and deserve nothing more than to be eradicated. That's what his father taught him, and what was taught to him by his grandfather. For as long as Vivian could speak, read, and write, he was taught to hate, and eventually, hunt.

———

All you can feel is pain. Scalding, shooting pain starting from the neck, where it eventually spans out like a web of venom across his chest. In his mind, it's like a scratch unable to be itched, as the urge to claw at his skin grows as each excruciating second ticks by. Then come the pain in his gums. Then the jaw. Then the scalp. All you can feel is pain, as you're slumped against an alley's wall.

When Vivian heard a quiet whimper from a nearby alley, he was immediately placed on edge. Perhaps it was a homeless person having a rough night, or maybe someone had been through a breakup and is using the alley as a place of solace. No matter the reason, he should check it out, just in case it was what he hoped it wasn't: a vampire.

Vivian's gaze immediately snapped to the figure against the wall. They're cradling their bloodied neck, and they seem to have their clothes torn. Is that a hint of white on their scalp? "....A hatchling," Vivian murmurs to himself as he takes a step forward, his hand hovering over his pistol.