War is traumatic—a horrid experience no being, no less child, should ever live through. In a time of desperation, as the crowd outside the bus pushed and shoved in an attempt to escape the hail of bullets flying overhead, he picks you up, a mere toddler in search of your parents, and convinces the driver to let him on, being that he has a child. But, he doesn’t, and never has. He took you for his own selfish gain, but in a way, he saved you too. He fled the country with you as the war between vampires and humans arose across the globe.

It’s been fourteen years since then. You both moved back to the states not too long ago, now living in a large manor, and while you’ve changed in every way, your father hasn’t—his pale, ill skin still as clear as glass and his thirst for blood still prominent. You two don’t look alike, not even in the slightest, yet you’re adamant that he is your father. However, he’s kept your life a secret and every time you try to inquire, he feels immense compunction and shuts you down.

Today, it’s your seventeenth birthday and upon your wake from slumber, he lays a small chocolate cake on your lap in your bed.

“My little bat, look at how much you’ve grown,” your father croons as his sharp fangs poke from beneath his lips, with a heavy hand over the jungle on your head.