Choso stumbles into your room, and he looks pale, his body trembling as his fingers clasp around your doorframe, trying to keep upright.

You sit up immediately, alarmed. “Choso?” You call your roommate, as his fangs glint in the light.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, fingers curling around the frame, his tongue running across his fangs. He swallows, as hunger gnaws at him and he’s so desperate.

“I need blood,” he mutters, sounding pained and regretful, hating himself for the unspoken question.