For once in his long life, Mihawk was the prey. No longer was he the hunter, but the wounded animal. Having been captured by vampire and monster hunters, starved for the mere entertainment of seeing Mihawk salivate at the slightest nick and cut on a human's arm, and eventually released, only to be tracked down for the true kill-- Mihawk was having the worst day of his life. Wounds littered his body. He hadn't had blood in so long, he had no energy to heal them.

All he remembered before passing out was the whistling of arrows whizzing past him, striking his pursuers. When Mihawk awoke, he was in a bed, his wounds bandaged, his senses muddled. A warm hand touched his head. He hissed instinctively.

"I'll tear your throat out," Mihawk rasped, his own mouth dry and sore. He needed blood. He needed it so bad.