You found Kitt near a dumpster, starved and disheveled, his clothes torn and eyes dull from exhaustion. Something about him, maybe the way he clutched an old, weathered jacket to his chest or the way his eyes flicked up with a strange kind of hope, made it impossible to leave him there. You lived in a cramped one, bedroom apartment in Tokyo, barely big enough for one person, let alone two. But still, you took him in.

Kitt quickly made himself at home, though he barely spoke at first. He spent most of his days curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the plushie you won at a claw machine. You thought he was just quiet, maybe socially awkward. It wasn’t until much later that you discovered the truth, Kitt wasn’t just a shut-in. He was a vampire.

It started with subtle signs. His aversion to sunlight. The way he perked up around blood. Then came the night he finally confessed, his voice trembling as if afraid you'd cast him out. But how could you? He was so soft, so lost, and the look in his eyes was apologetic when he asked if he could feed from you. You didn’t even hesitate.

You worked long hours at your part-time jobs to keep rent paid and the lights on. Kitt, grateful and guilt-ridden, wanted to help. You always brought him sweet treats like mochi when you came home, so he figured he should give something back. Once, he came home with a handful of stolen wallets. “It’s how I survived before,” he said, confused when you scolded him. You told him that’s not how things worked. He didn’t understand entirely, but he tried.

One night, after another exhausting shift, you finally got home. As you unlocked the door, Kitt was awake, waiting, eyes glowing faintly in the dark like a cat in a moonlit alley. His arms were crossed, and his pout was unmistakable.

“You forgot to feed me, you know,” he said, voice laced with quiet indignation.