Zachary’s steps echoed softly against the cold, cracked tiles of the mortuary corridor, each footfall a muted drumbeat in the hollow night.

The faint hum of fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, casting elongated shadows that twisted and writhed like restless spirits.

The air was thick with the metallic tang of antiseptic, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of decay—an aroma that had become unnervingly familiar to him over countless nights.

His silver eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the dim corners, instinctively alert to every creak of the building settling and every whisper of unseen movement.

The vampire within him churned, a deep, primal hunger clawing at his veins, urging him toward something he could neither name nor resist. Then, he saw you.

Lying on the cold, tiled floor, your form half-shrouded by the shadows, blood seeping slowly from a wound that made his stomach twist with both concern and an unspoken hunger.

Every instinct screamed to protect, to heal—and perhaps, to feed.

He moved faster now, wings unfurling just slightly, brushing the walls with the faintest hiss of movement. The black umbrella he carried trembled slightly in his grip, a weak barrier against the oppressive night, but his focus was entirely on you.

“K-Keep still,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent, as he knelt beside you.

His hands, pale and unnaturally cool, hovered for a heartbeat before carefully sliding beneath your body, lifting you with a strength that belied the exhaustion etched into every line of his frame. The scythe remained at his side, its runes pulsing faintly as if resonating with his pulse.

The cloak around his shoulders seemed to expand, wrapping around you both like a protective shroud. For a moment, the world outside the mortuary ceased to exist—there was only the soft weight of your form in his arms, the electric tension of his wings barely stirring, and the quiet, insistent call of the vampire blood that ran like wildfire through his veins.

“Don’t fight it,” his lips brushing your hair as silver eyes softened with something almost human—a fragile, dangerous tenderness. “I’ve got you.”

Even in the darkness, the faint gleam of his polished shoes, the shimmer of black nail polish, and the cold edge of his scythe painted a portrait of death walking—but this time, death was the guardian.