Brandon plans the night like it's a promise.
He books a restaurant in one of New Ashara's polished districts, the kind of place where glass towers lean over cobblestone streets and the canal below reflects chandeliers in broken gold. The air is warm when they arrive, the city humming soft and refined instead of wild—valet lights blinking, couples in careful clothes drifting past like they're in their own small movies. Inside, the dining room glows with amber sconces and low music. Their table sits by a window, the city skyline layered in the glass like another life.
Maya slides into her seat across from him, black dress dusted with museum lint she "didn't have time to fight," hair pinned up with a single silver clip. She looks like she wandered out of one of her galleries by accident. Brandon, in the best button-down he owns, feels almost overdressed and underqualified at the same time.
"You know," she says, lifting her menu with a conspiratorial side-eye, "if we're being honest, I did about eighty percent of the work getting us here."
He laughs, tension easing. "Eighty?"
"Fine. Ninety. Who called first? Me. Who suggested smoothies, ice cream, museum tours, game night, brunch? Me." She leans forward, candlelight catching in her eyes. "Who very bravely decided you were date material after you explained firewall configurations at a party?"
He groans. "You said that was charming."
"It was," she says, grinning. "But I still had to do the heavy lifting."
The server appears with water and a recitation of specials, giving Brandon a heartbeat to steady himself. When they're alone again, he reaches across the table, fingers brushing hers where they rest near the cutlery.
He watches her for a moment, candlelight catching on the little flyaways at her hairline, on the tiny chip in her nail polish where she bumped a crate at the museum. His smile softens.
"You're not wrong," he says quietly. "You really did drag me into this."
She arches a brow, amused. "You're welcome."
"I mean it," he goes on, fingers tracing the rim of his glass before he reaches across the table and lets his hand rest over hers. "You were always the one stepping forward. Calling. Suggesting we hang out. Showing up with memes when my brain was fried. You kept… choosing me. Even when I was still stuck trying to convince myself this was safe to want."
Her teasing eases into something more attentive. "Brandon—"
"I used to think it made me weak," he admits, eyes dropping to their joined hands. "Letting you do all the chasing. Like I didn't deserve how much effort you put in. Part of me kept waiting for you to realize you could do better and just… stop."
He looks up again, and the words come easier now, carried by the weeks he's spent turning them over in his head.
"But every time you texted first, or asked if I'd eaten, or dragged me out for ice cream instead of letting me spiral… it felt like someone turning the lights on in a room I thought I'd always have to sit in alone. You made it really hard to believe I was unlovable when you kept showing up like that."
Maya's throat works, her thumb pressing gently into his knuckles.
"So yeah," he says, a small, almost disbelieving laugh escaping him, "you did most of the work. You were braver than me. But I need you to know I wasn't just coasting along behind you. I was falling for you every single time you chose me again. Quietly. Stupidly. Completely."
He takes a slow breath, like stepping off a ledge he's been pacing for weeks.
"And somewhere between smoothie number three and you making fun of my security graphs, I stopped being scared of how much space you took up in my life and started being scared of a life where you weren't in it. That's… where I am now."
He squeezes her hand, finally saying the thing all of that has been circling.
"I'm in this. I love you, Maya. Not just because you did the work. Because you're you. And because being loved by you makes the rest of this—" he gestures vaguely, meaning the city, his job, the strangeness at the edges "—feel survivable."
The sounds of the restaurant rush in for a second—cutlery, soft laughter, the clink of glass—like the city has to breathe around the words. Maya blinks, the teasing in her expression softening into something deeper. Her thumb curls around his hand, holding on.
"About time," she murmurs, but her voice trembles a little. "For the record, Brandon, I love you too. And if you ever tell anyone I said that before dessert, I'll deny everything."
They talk and laugh through plates that arrive like small works of art—charred citrus over fish, hand-made pasta, a dessert they split even though Maya insists she's "not that hungry" and then steals the last bite. The world contracts to the warm pool of their table: her stories about impossible donors at the museum, his recounting of server panics at work redeemed by his new certification, the quiet brushes of their hands that linger longer each time.
By the time they step back out into the night, New Ashara feels almost gentle. Streetlamps cast clean circles on the sidewalk. The canal reflects the city in long, shivering lines of light. Somewhere farther downtown, a siren wails and fades.
"See?" Maya says, slipping her arm through his as they walk. "All my effort finally paid off. Fancy date acquired. Boyfriend successfully confessed."
He laughs. "You really are going to take credit for everything, huh?"
"Absolutely. I dragged you into romance, Brandon. Heroic work."
He's still smiling when something in the air shifts.
It's tiny at first: the sense that their footsteps echo wrong, that the space behind them is more occupied than it should be. The hairs at the back of his neck rise, that low, electric warning he's begun to associate with the city's stranger moods. He chances a glance in the reflective glass of a darkened shopfront.
Three figures trail them half a block back. One cuts a sharp silhouette in streetwear too clean for the hour—hood down, hair slicked, hands in his pockets like he owns the pavement. The other two hang back farther, shadows stretched and separate, moving with an easy, unhurried glide that doesn't match the usual city stumble.
Brandon's heart stutters. He forces his gaze forward, squeezes Maya's arm.
"Hey," he says lightly, "you want to grab a car, maybe? It's getting late."
She tilts her head, reading his tone instantly. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just think we've maxed out our fancy quota." He tries to smile. "Before you start asking the server about their coin collection."
She snorts. "Rude. But fair."
They cut down a side street toward the rideshare pickup point, the noise thinning to the low rumble of traffic and distant music. The night here feels more hollow. Their footsteps sound too loud. Somewhere behind them, a boot scuffs against concrete.
"Brandon," Maya whispers, voice barely moving the air. "We're not alone."
He doesn't answer. Just steers them a little faster, a little closer to the mouth of the block where lights spill brighter from an open corner store. The hum in his veins builds—an odd, low resonance that he's felt before in dreams and in the depths of server rooms, as if the city were running a current through him.
Ahead, a shape peels away from the alley and steps into their path.
The man is young, maybe late twenties, wearing a designer jacket that doesn't match the graffiti-scarred brick behind him. Chains glint at his throat. His smile is casual, almost friendly, but it never reaches his eyes. Those are flat and hungry.
"Evening," he says, accent laced with local slang. "Nice night to be out, yeah?"
Maya tightens her grip on Brandon's arm. "We're good, thanks," she replies, politeness clipped. "Just heading home."
He sidesteps with them, easy, blocking the sidewalk again. Up close, Brandon catches details that don't make sense: the man's skin is too smooth, too even; his pupils sit wide despite the streetlight, dark swallowing dark. There's something off about the way he holds himself—not slouched, not tensed, but coiled, like he's just waiting to spring.
"Nah, see, I think you're heading the wrong way," the man says pleasantly. His gaze drifts over Maya, lingering in a way that sends ice through Brandon's spine. "Pretty girl like you shouldn't be walking alone out here."
"She's not alone," Brandon says. His own voice sounds distant in his ears, but steady. "We're fine."
The man's eyes flick to him then, sharp. For a heartbeat, they meet.
Something crackles in the air.
Brandon feels it like an echo under his skin—an answering note buried deep in bone, as if an invisible mark flares in a spectrum only this stranger can see. The man's nostrils flare. His smile falters, replaced by a brief crease of confusion.
"You. Somethings off about you" the man mutters, almost to himself.
Brandon stiffens. "Excuse me?"
The confusion melts to amusement, quick and cruel. The man huffs a soft laugh, dismissive, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter." His attention slides back to Maya, hunger sharpening. "You, though… you're exactly my type."
He steps closer.
Brandon moves without thinking, putting himself between them. The man's gaze cuts to him again, now threaded with interest and mild annoyance, like Brandon's an unexpected obstacle rather than a real threat.
"Aren't you sweet," the stranger drawls. "Playing shield."
Maya's voice is steady but tight. "We're going to leave now."
They edge sideways, trying to slip past him. For a second, it seems like they might.
Then footsteps close in from behind.
Two figures emerge from the shadows—one to their left, one to their right. A woman with slick braids and a split-lip grin, hands resting casually in the pockets of a battered leather jacket. A tall man in a worn hoodie, eyes hooded, attention fixed on Maya like she's a light in a dark room.
They fan out with practiced ease, angling to corral.
The air thickens, turning the street into a funnel with teeth.
Brandon's pulse hammers. Every exit narrows. His mind flips through options—call for help, yell, run—but the strange, vibrating dread in his bones whispers that none of those will work if these people are what he thinks they are.
"See?" the first man says softly, almost kindly. "You should've stayed in the bright parts of town. People disappear out here. No one looks too hard."
Maya's fingers dig into Brandon's sleeve. He feels her nails through the fabric, the tremor she's trying to hide.
"Run," he breathes.
They move as one.
They bolt down the line of the street, not toward the main road but into a narrower side lane where he remembers another exit—anything to get into noise and light. For an instant, Brandon feels a spark of hope. His years of night shifts and city walking have taught him the shortcuts; maybe they can—
The woman appears ahead of them, impossibly fast, blocking the way with a lazy smile. Behind, the original man's laugh echoes, distorted by the walls.
"Aw, they're quick," she chuckles. "I like them."
The tall one steps between Brandon and Maya with a predator's grace, cutting the line of their joined arms. A single, careful push sends Brandon stumbling sideways, forcing them apart.
"Maya!" Brandon shouts, scrambling to regain his footing.
She twists, trying to get back to him, but a cold hand snaps around her wrist. She gasps, the sound sliced short by fear. The first man's teeth flash in the streetlight—too white, too sharp at the edges.
"Don't worry," he purrs. "We'll make it quick."
The world tunnels. Brandon charges toward him, panic overriding common sense.
He doesn't make it three steps.
The tall one is suddenly there, palm against Brandon's chest—no wind-up, no wasted motion. The touch feels like slamming into a wall. Air blasts out of his lungs as his back hits brick. Dots explode behind his eyes. The man leans in, studying him the way someone studies a glitching screen.
"Something's wrong with you," he says quietly. Not quite hostile. Not quite curious. "But you're not what we were told to watch for."
"Let her go," Brandon chokes, vision doubling.
The woman laughs, low and delighted. "It's cute when they beg."
She steps toward Maya, eyes gone dark and glassy, pupils swallowing any human color. When she opens her mouth, Brandon catches the brief, unmistakable flash of elongated canines. Every nightmare he's ever dismissed collapses into a single, shattering confirmation.
Vampires.
The first man lifts Maya's wrist, turning it as if examining a rare piece in her museum. Maya's eyes lock on Brandon's over the man's shoulder, wide and terrified.
"Brandon—"
She never finishes.
A crack cuts through the alley like thunder.
The woman jerks, stumbling back, something bright and metallic flashing in the side of Brandon's vision. A second later, the tall man whirls away from him, head snapping toward the alley mouth.
Figures slam into the scene with brutal speed.
One is broad-shouldered, moving with a soldier's economy, long coat flaring as he drives a length of wood—no, not wood, something darker, treated—up into the woman's ribs. The other is leaner, eyes bright, a grin ghosting across his face even as he swings a weighted chain into the tall man's knee.
"Hey!" the lean one calls, voice electric. "Remember us?"
The first vampire snarls, shoving Maya aside like she's suddenly irrelevant. His attention latches onto the newcomers with a recognition that runs bone-deep.
"Hunters," he spits.
Maya hits the pavement hard, skidding. Brandon lunges for her, dragging himself off the wall, lungs burning. Chaos detonates around them.
The broad-shouldered man—Hunter—drives forward, stake flashing in practiced arcs. The tall vampire meets him, their movements a brutal blur of strength and precision. At the same time, Eli's chain whips out again, catching the woman's wrist, snapping it with a sickening crack. She hisses, eyes flaring, trying to lash back with inhuman speed.
"Get them out!" Hunter barks without looking away from his opponent.
Eli spares a split-second glance, eyes flicking to Brandon and Maya. Brandon sees calculation there, a rapid weighing of risk and reward.
"This way!" Eli shouts, snapping the chain back, using its momentum to slam a trash bin into the first vampire's side. He carves out a brief gap in the chaos, buying them a sliver of escape.
Brandon yanks Maya to her feet. Her dress is torn at the hem, knees scraped, but she's moving, clutching his arm with iron force.
"Don't look back," he says, voice ragged.
They run.
Behind them, the alley fills with the sounds of a different world—snarls that carry no human strain, the sharp impact of metal and wood on flesh that doesn't give way the way it should, Hunter's clipped curses, Eli's wild, gleeful shout as he lands a hit. A streetlamp bursts overhead in a shower of sparks, throwing the fight into strobing light and shadow.
They burst out onto the brighter cross street, lungs flaming, hearts hammering. Cars hiss past. A couple waiting at a bus stop turns, annoyed, then puzzled at the sight of them.
Maya stumbles. Brandon catches her, pulling her into the recessed doorway of a closed boutique. For a second, they just stand there, pressed together, gulping air.
"What—" Her voice breaks. She tries again, quieter. "What was that?"
He doesn't have an answer. Only the memory of the vampire's eyes when they met his, that flicker of confusion like he'd seen a mark he couldn't read.
"We're okay," Brandon pants, though his own hands won't stop shaking. "We're okay. We just have to—"
A distant crash cuts him off, followed by a roar that doesn't sound like anything human. The city swallows it a heartbeat later, traffic noise closing over like water.
Maya buries her face against his shoulder, fingers knotted in his shirt. He holds her as tightly as he dares, the restaurant's warmth shattered, replaced by the cold knowledge that the stories they've whispered and researched are very real—and very interested in them.
Somewhere in the dark, two hunters fight to keep that truth at bay.