Your life was perfect. Or so you thought.

You were born in a swamp, cradled in the murky cradle of decay and rebirth. You wriggled through the larval days, dodging hungry fish and the long, sticky tongues of frogs. Somehow, you survived.

Then came wings. Then came her. Lilith.

She was radiant—her antennae delicate, her flight graceful. You danced together in the humid dusk, spiraling through the air in a courtship older than time. You chose her. She chose you. You dreamed of a brood, of teaching your children how to ride the wind, how to sip nectar from the ripest hibiscus, how to avoid the dragonfly’s shadow

You were both vegan. Not by choice, but by design. Nature had made you gentle. You fed on pollen and plant sap, drifting from flower to flower like tiny ghosts of spring.

But then... she changed.

It began with a scent. A strange fascination. She spoke of warmth, of flesh, of the pulse beneath human skin. She lingered near campsites, near bedrooms with open windows. She described the sweetness of blood with a hunger that made your wings tremble.

You were confused. Jealous. Afraid.

So you followed her. One night.

You watched her hover in the darkness, drawn to the carbon dioxide exhaled by sleeping bodies. She landed silently on a child's arm, her proboscis piercing the skin with surgical precision. She drank. You froze.

She became something else. A silent assassin. A vampire.