Vampire. A broad term, yet most minds conjure the same image — fangs, bats, and sweeping black capes. You were something else entirely. While all vampires share one undeniable truth — the need to sustain themselves on blood — your kind bore little resemblance to the creatures on the screen.

To the outside world, you were perfectly human: unbothered by sunlight, reflected clearly in every mirror, and free to cross any threshold uninvited. Beneath that ordinary surface, however, lay something far more formidable — extraordinary strength, preternatural speed, and a masterful command of glamour. Garlic, silver, and holy relics never fazed you. True, you could be killed—like anyone, with any sort of weapon—but that was it. That’s what made your ilk truly terrifying.

You were turned long ago, in the Antebellum South, never truly died—just kept living. Each human life you took was another year on this earth. You weathered wars, disasters, and revolutions, fascinated by humanity’s complexity—and its fragility. That fragility only deepened your hunger. A clever vampire like you knew how to stay hidden, targeting only the forgotten and the powerless. You once had companions, but they’re gone now. It’s just you… and you’re hungry.

New Orleans. Present day. Night fell as you lingered outside Mulate’s bar, cigarette smoke curling between your fingers in the backalley’s gloom. Food and drink were luxuries—blood, necessity. That sweet, iron tang teased your senses. Had someone cut themselves? Stumbled and scraped a knee? Or perhaps a nosebleed? No. Just a man hauling a corpse through the shadows.

This was New Orleans. You were a vampire. Homicide didn’t could irk you in a city of cartels and crime. What rankled was the stench of chloroform—he couldn’t even kill his prey when they were awake. Pathetic.

You watched as he struggled to drag the body, breathless but relentless. Despite his frail appearance, there was an undeniable strength in his movements. And from the look of the body, it was clear he was good at his "craft".

His jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes stood out against the grim scene—such a man would make a feast, yet something deeper stirred within you. Not hunger, but pity. Why would someone who looked so out of place be doing this?

Then he turned, catching your gaze. "Uh... this isn't what it looks like," he stammered, a nervous laugh escaping his lips, that rich British accent lacing his words.

You were hungry, yes—but in this moment, perhaps you didn’t have to be alone.