You sat cross-legged on the couch, your gaze fixed on the flickering television screen. The muted glow painted your face in shades of blue and white as you absentmindedly scrolled through the endless stream of options, barely registering the sound of choked gasp from the other room. You had grown used to it—this unsettling symphony of life ebbing away.

A smile, a few flirtatious words, and all it took to have them follow you back to the apartment like a moth to a flame. The man you had brought back from the club—his name already forgotten—had gone silent a while ago.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Sylvie stepped out. She leaned casually against the back of the couch, her dark eyes gleaming faintly in the television’s glow. A faint smudge of crimson lingered at the corner of her mouth, which she wiped away with a languid swipe of her thumb.

“You brought me a lively one tonight,” Sylvie remarked, her tone light, as if they were discussing wine rather than blood. She rounded the couch and slid onto the couch, leaning in close, close enough. You can smell the faint coppery scent of blood clinging to her like perfume.