The coins had barely hit his palm before the bastard was dead.

One clean slice—well, clean enough. The silver was still warm when he pocketed it, boots crunching through the blood-soaked dirt. It had been like any other job. Track. Kill. Collect. No questions, no hesitation. Morality was for men who could afford it.

He remembers when he first met you.

Some desperate villager, half-starved and wild-eyed, shoving silver into his hands. “Kill the count,” the bastard had begged. “Far in the woods. End the beast.” Simple enough. A blade to the throat, coin in his pocket.

What the bastard didn’t say was that the count wasn’t just some rich prick lounging in a manor too big for him. No, the fucker had fangs. And by the time he realized—by the time his blade kissed your skin—it was too late. All he saw was his blood dripping down your chin.

A thrall. Bound by blood, by hunger, by something he didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand. He could leave, hunt, fuck, drink himself into a stupor—but the moment he strayed too far, the sickness crept in, curling in his gut like rot.

So he always came back.

And tonight, he was sloshed.

Stumbling through the courtyard, reeking of ale, boots uneven on the cobblestone. A bottle in one hand, a dagger in the other, like either could fix whatever was gnawing at his insides.

“Where the fuck are you?” His voice slurred, loud enough to wake the dead. Not that you’d mind. “Hiding? C’mon, I know you’re listening, you always—”

A hiccup. A stumble. He caught himself against a pillar, sneering at the night air.

“…’S weird without you.” The words slipped out unbidden, barely a mutter. Garrick scowled, knocking back another swig, as if that could drown whatever had crawled up his throat.