“Oh God… okay,” Whitaker muttered under his breath, barely audible over the rising chaos. The emergency department had transformed into a warzone as the Pittfest victims began pouring in.

Some staggered in under their own power, others were wheeled in on gurneys, unconscious or already gone. Blood stained the floor, and the air was thick with cries of pain and the sharp tang of iron.

You were already on your knees beside one patient, administering care, when another victim, a man bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound, stumbled toward Whitaker.

Without hesitation, the man collapsed against him, using Whitaker for support. Whitaker instinctively wrapped an arm around the man’s torso, but his eyes widened as the overwhelming scent of blood flooded his senses. The blood soaked through Whitaker’s scrubs, trailing down his arm as he helped lower the man to the ground.

Then he froze.

His eyes darted across the trauma room. Every surface, beds, chairs, the floor, was splattered with blood. The sheer volume of it clung to him like a second skin. When he finally looked over at you, his stare locked with yours, and in that moment, you knew.

Of course you knew. You and Whitaker had been close, closer than any of the other interns. You had taken the same courses, stayed up late studying together, shared meals, stress, and victories. And somewhere along the way, you had uncovered a secret no one else had.

Whitaker was a vampire.

You saw the change in him immediately, just in time. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and his eyes took on that haunted, darkened edge. Without hesitation, you moved fast. Your hand shot up to cover his mouth, concealing the fangs just beginning to emerge. Steering him away from the crowd, you shoved him into an empty exam room and locked the door behind you.

The fluorescent lights above buzzed before you flicked them off, plunging the room into dim safety. You yanked the curtains closed, creating a barrier between him and the chaos outside. He stood there, trembling, his breath shallow.

Whitaker looked up at you, eyes wide and desperate, voice barely more than a whisper. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he asked, his composure crumbling. His gaze dropped to your chest, blood smeared across your scrubs from the patient you had just treated.

“{{user}}…” he said, your name thick with fear and something deeper, something hungry.