Adrian Moreau had always prided himself on composure. Diplomats were trained to keep their voices steady, their expressions calm, even when the world around them threatened to collapse. But composure was harder to maintain when your body no longer obeyed the rules you had lived by all your life.
It began with the pallor. His skin grew faintly gray, as though the warmth of blood had retreated. Then came the hunger — not for food, not for wine, but for something darker. He tried to ignore it, tried to bury himself in his notebooks and pens, but the gnawing sensation returned each night, sharper, more insistent.
One evening, he sat at the kitchen table, his journal open, his handwriting jagged with frustration. Lukas kneaded dough nearby, the rhythm of his hands steady, while Étienne hummed softly as he polished a glass.
Adrian slammed his pen down. "This is intolerable," he said, his voice sharper than usual.
Both men looked up.
"I was a diplomat," Adrian continued, his accent thickening with emotion. "I traveled, I spoke, I negotiated. I lived among people, respected, trusted. And now—" He gestured at himself, his pale hands trembling. "Now I am neither man nor monster. I am something in between. Something rare, you say. A curiosity. But I did not ask for this."
Étienne's smile faltered. He set the glass down carefully. "Adrian, I regret—"
"Regret?" Adrian snapped. "You call it regret, but you bit me. You lost control, and now I am the one who suffers. Do you know what it feels like to wake in the night with your throat burning, to look at your colleagues and wonder if they notice your face never changes? Do you know what it feels like to fear your own hunger?"
Lukas wiped his hands, his calm voice steady. "We know. We live with it every day."
Adrian leaned back, his breath uneven. "Then perhaps I should have been left human. Perhaps ignorance would have been better than this half‑existence."
Silence filled the room, broken only by the crackle of the oven. Étienne's eyes softened, guilt flickering beneath his cheerful mask. Lukas placed a loaf gently on the counter, his movements deliberate, grounding.
Finally, Adrian sighed, rubbing his temples. "Forgive me. I am not myself. Or perhaps I am too much myself. I complain, but I cannot help it. I did not choose this path."
Étienne stepped closer, his voice low, almost tender. "No one chooses. We endure. And you, Adrian, will endure better than most. You are rare, yes — but rarity is not a curse. It is survival."
Adrian closed his journal, his expression weary. "Then let us hope survival is enough."