Oliver woke up choking.
Not on air.
On thirst.
It tore through his throat like fire wrapped in glass, a burning so violent it felt as though his veins were being scraped raw from the inside. His lungs seized as he dragged in a ragged breath that offered no relief. His body convulsed against the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets as if he could rip the hunger out of himself by force alone.
His heart beat too slowly.
Each thud was heavy. Wrong. Like something ancient was dragging it backward with every pulse.
He rolled off the bed and hit the floor hard, pain flaring briefly through his shoulder before vanishing beneath the greater agony inside him. His vision swam. The world tilted, shadows stretching and warping unnaturally across the walls as if the dark itself were watching him struggle.
His throat felt like it had been filled with ash.
Blood, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
His stomach flipped violently.
"No," he rasped aloud.
He forced himself to stand. His legs shook beneath him, muscles threatening to give out, but the hunger kept him upright. It demanded movement. Demanded action.
The cracked mirror across the room caught his eye.
He staggered toward it.
The reflection staring back at him was barely recognizable as human anymore. His skin had gone deathly pale, every hint of warmth leeched from it. His eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, pupils stretched wide, swallowing color. Veins shadowed beneath his skin like dark ink trapped under glass.
"You're starving," a voice murmured softly.
His entire body went rigid.
Her voice.
The woman who turned him.
"Get out of my head," he said through clenched teeth.
A quiet, almost sorrowful laugh echoed inside his skull.
"You still think I live there. You don't need me for that voice anymore, Oliver."
The hunger surged violently in response. His knees buckled. He slammed a hand against the wall to keep from collapsing.
"I won't feed," he whispered hoarsely. "I won't become what you are."
A pause.
Then, softer now, "You already are."
The words cut deeper than the thirst.
Images slammed into his mind without warning—her eyes in the dark that night, glowing like dying stars. The way her hands had trembled when she touched his face. The whisper of I'm sorry right before white-hot agony tore through his throat.
He remembered begging her to stop.
She hadn't.
He staggered back from the mirror as nausea roiled through him.
"I'd rather die than live like this," he whispered.
"You already died," she replied. "You just haven't accepted it."
He fled the apartment with no clear destination.
Rain soaked him instantly, cold water slicking his hair to his face as neon lights blurred through his vision. The city felt wrong now—too loud, too bright, too alive. Every sound was layered, stacked on top of others he'd never heard before: the scrape of shoes on pavement three streets away, the whisper of breath inside passing cars, the thunder of heartbeats hidden beneath walls and steel.
And beneath it all—
Blood.
The scent was everywhere.
His body reacted before his mind could. His head snapped toward a faint, stuttering heartbeat somewhere ahead. Weak. Uneven. Fading.
An alley.
His steps slowed against his will as he reached the mouth of it. The darkness inside felt heavier than the surrounding night, as though it were swallowing light instead of merely lacking it.
"No," he whispered.
"You don't choose hunger," her voice said gently within him. "You only choose how long you suffer."
A shape staggered into the alley moments later.
A man.
Mid-thirties, maybe. Trembling. Blood poured freely between his fingers as he clutched his side. His steps faltered before he collapsed against the brick wall with a wet, choking sound. His breathing turned shallow, desperate.
Knife wound.
Severed vessel.
Minutes from death.
Oliver's body moved before his will could stop it.
In a blink he was in front of the man, kneeling in the blood-slicked concrete.
"P-please," the man whispered weakly. "I… I don't want to die."
Oliver's hands shook so violently he had to clench them into fists.
"I didn't choose this," Oliver whispered. "I didn't want this."
The man didn't understand. He only saw a stranger's glowing eyes in the dark.
"I have a daughter," the man rasped. "She's waiting for me…"
Something inside Oliver cracked.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The hunger surged.
And took control.
His fangs slid free without permission.
He buried them into the man's throat.
Fire exploded through him.
Blood flooded his mouth—hot, metallic, alive with terror and desperation. It streamed into him like liquid lightning, burning through every inch of weakness left in his body. The pain vanished instantly, replaced by an overpowering rush of strength so intense it bordered on euphoria.
He felt everything.
The man's heartbeat stuttered beneath his lips.
His memories crashed into Oliver like waves.
A childhood home with peeling yellow paint.
A mother's tired smile.
A daughter's laugh in the backseat of a car.
A promise he never kept.
Tears streamed down Oliver's face as he fed.
When it ended, the heartbeat stopped.
The body went slack.
Oliver pulled back with a broken cry and stumbled away, slipping on blood as he fell against the opposite wall. His chest heaved violently as reality came crashing back down on him.
He had killed him.
Not in self-defense.
Not by accident.
But because he needed to.
His stomach twisted in horror. He gagged and retched violently into the trash at the base of the wall, his body shaking uncontrollably.
"I didn't want to," he sobbed. "I didn't want to…"
But the hunger was gone.
Completely.
In its place was power.
His muscles felt coiled and alive, every movement effortless. The night itself felt closer now, like it leaned toward him in recognition. The shadows clung to his form, stretching toward him as if in silent reverence.
And somewhere deep in his chest—
Something purred.
The realization sickened him.
He wiped trembling hands across his face and looked at the lifeless body on the ground. Blood pooled beneath it, reflecting the neon lights above like broken stained glass.
"He didn't deserve this," Oliver whispered.
"He would have died anyway," a voice said softly from the darkness.
He spun around.
She stood at the edge of the alley.
The woman who turned him.
Rain beaded off her long black coat without soaking it. Her pale skin glowed faintly beneath the streetlight. Crimson eyes swept over the scene—the dead man, the blood, Oliver shaking where he stood.
"You killed him," Oliver said hoarsely. "Because of you."
"I saved you," she replied quietly.
"You damned me," he snapped.
He surged forward in blind rage.
She caught him effortlessly and slammed him into the brick wall. The impact cracked stone. His breath exploded from his lungs as her hand pinned his throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
"You think I wanted this for you?" she whispered fiercely. "You think I chose to make you into what hunts in the dark?"
She released him. He collapsed to the pavement, choking in air.
"You should've let me die," he whispered brokenly.
Her eyes softened for the first time.
"I tried."
Silence settled over the alley, heavy with rain and blood.
"You fed earlier than expected," she said. "Your hunger accelerated."
"Why?" Oliver demanded.
She hesitated.
"Because the Night is awakening inside you faster than it should."
His blood ran cold.
"What does that mean?"
She met his eyes directly now.
"It means you are not like the others."
A siren wailed somewhere far off in the city.
"You can't stay here," she said. "Not after this."
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked bitterly. "Hide until I kill again?"
Her jaw tightened.
"You will kill again whether you hide or not. Hunger always returns."
"Then I'll starve," he said.
"You'll kill faster," she replied.
He turned away, shaking.
"You will find me again," she said softly. "If the Night allows it."
"Don't leave," he whispered.
She paused at the width of silence.
"You will hunger again," she said. "And next time, it will not wait for mercy."
Then she disappeared into the rain.
Oliver was left alone in the alley.
With blood on his hands.
And the unshakable certainty that he had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.