The night was damp and heavy, like a wet coat no one had bothered to take off for days.
The rain hadn't started in earnest yet, but the air was already saturated with it — the metallic tang of wet asphalt, the scent of soaked bark, and the faint, barely perceptible smell of rotting leaves hidden somewhere beneath the benches.
The park lamps burned dimly, a sickly yellow, their reflections trembling in shallow puddles as though someone had deliberately shattered hundreds of tiny mirrors.
They walked quickly, almost running, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles turned white.
Ethan could feel the warmth of her palm — the only warm spot in this entire cold world. Maria was silent, but her breathing came short and ragged; she kept glancing over her shoulder even though Ethan had already whispered several times: "Don't look back. Just keep walking."
And then — a voice. Lazy, velvety, carrying that tone that sends shivers down your spine even when you don't know why.
"Oh, going somewhere in a hurry?"
They froze. Three figures appeared in front of them as if from nowhere.
The one in the lead was taller than the others — lean, with long, almost feminine fingers and skin so pale that the lamplight made it look especially jaundiced. Laurent Wade.
He spoke his own name as though introducing himself at a dinner party, not blocking their path in an empty park at night.
"Care to join us for a little company?" he went on, smiling slowly, only at the corner of his mouth. The smile never reached his eyes.
His eyes stayed cold, watchful — like a cat that had already decided the mouse wasn't going anywhere.
Ethan felt every muscle in his back tighten, as though invisible strings had been pulled from the nape of his neck down to his lower back.
"Sorry," he said, trying to keep his voice level.
"We're in a hurry. Get out of the way."
Laurent narrowed his eyes slightly. The smile widened, grew sharper — now it looked like a crack in porcelain revealing something dark underneath.
"As you wish," he drawled, almost tenderly. "I do love watching lovers at this hour… when they think the whole world belongs to just the two of them."
Behind him one of the companions — stocky, with close-cropped hair and a tattoo crawling out from under his collar — silently pulled out a phone. The screen flared blue, lighting his face from below and turning it into a mask of shadows.
He pointed the camera straight at them.
"Go on, Laurent, film it," the second one snorted — the one standing a little to the side, wrapped in a long black coat.
"Let everyone see how sweetly they're holding hands."
Maria flinched and took half a step back. Her fingers gripped Ethan's hand even harder — almost painfully.
He instantly stepped forward, shielding her with his entire body.
Shoulders tense, breathing deeper, slower — the way a person breathes when bracing for a blow.
"Just go your own way," he said quietly. His voice was firm, but already trembling with the note he hated in himself: helplessness.
Laurent tilted his head, studying Maria over Ethan's shoulder. His gaze slid slowly, appraisingly, as though he were estimating weight, texture, flavor.
"Go?" he repeated with mock surprise. "But she's so… appetizing."
The word hung in the air, sticky and heavy. A short pause followed — the kind in which you hear only the distant hum of cars beyond the park fence and your own heart pounding in your ears.
"We're not in any rush. Right, guys?"
And then everything happened too fast.
Laurent took a step forward — swift, almost imperceptible.
A red flash of light — whether the reflection of a lamp in his eyes or something else — flickered and vanished.
No sound of impact, no scream. Only an instant, absolute silence.
Ethan saw Maria's body go limp in mid-air, like a marionette whose strings had all been cut at once.
He managed to catch her — just barely. Her head fell back, dark hair spilling across his sleeve, wet from the fine mist.
I lost her in the blink of an eye. I didn't even have time to blink…
The small silver ring — the very one he had planned to slip onto her finger in half an hour — slipped from his numb fingers. It fell into a puddle with a faint plop.
It flashed with the reflection of the streetlamp — a tiny, indifferent spark in black water.
Maria lay motionless in his arms. Her eyes were half-open, but the light in them was already fading, guttering out.
"Maria…?" Ethan whispered. His voice cracked into a rasp.
No answer. Only silence. And the weight of her body, growing more foreign with every second.
He slowly sank to his knees. The wet asphalt immediately soaked through his trousers with icy dampness.
The rain finally made up its mind — first sparse, heavy drops, then faster, more insistent, as though the sky itself were trying to wash something away, erase it, fix what could no longer be fixed.
The vampires walked away unhurriedly. Laurent didn't even glance back. They simply strolled off — three dark silhouettes dissolving into the rain and shadows, laughing softly, almost domestically. For them it was just another evening.
Another bit of fun.
For Ethan — the end of the world.
He was still holding her hand.
Her fingers were already cooling. Her skin turning waxy, alien. He squeezed harder — as though sheer will could hold onto the warmth, the life, her.
He wanted to scream… but his throat closed. Even breathing hurt.
And then the scream finally broke free.
It was born deep inside — animal, ragged, inhuman. It tore out, ripping his throat, shattering the park's silence.
The ground beneath him seemed to shudder. Leaves on the nearest trees trembled though there was almost no wind. The cry echoed off wet trunks, stone curbs, empty benches.
"Maria!"
But the voice was already breaking, dissolving into a whisper, a rasp, a powerless:
"Maria…"
Blue headlights sliced through the darkness. Some passerby — a woman with a dog or a guy in a hoodie — had managed to call.
The ambulance arrived quickly. Too quickly.
White-gloved medics pried her from him. Someone gently but firmly pushed Ethan aside. He didn't resist. There was no strength left even for that.
Inside him was only blackness. Thick, cold, pulling him under. He watched as they laid her on the stretcher, draped a blanket over her, fitted an oxygen mask — all of it happening in slow motion, as though it were someone else.
His fingers still remembered the warmth of her hand. The last, slipping warmth.
"No… no…" he whispered, staring at the flashing blue lights on the wet asphalt.
"Don't go…"
The rain grew heavier. Drops hammered his face, mingling with tears he hadn't even noticed.
She no longer lay in his arms.
The medics — two men and a woman in a bright yellow jacket with reflective stripes — took her body gently, almost tenderly. Their movements were practiced, professional, without unnecessary fuss, and that only made it worse.
They didn't look at Ethan — or if they did, it was past him, through him, as though he had already ceased to exist in their reality.
Maria's face was white — not merely pale, but truly white, as though someone had erased every trace of life's color in a single stroke. Her skin looked waxy, too smooth, too perfect in its stillness.
Her lips were slightly parted, but there was no breath — only a faint, barely noticeable blueness at the corners. Her eyes were closed. Long, dark lashes, wet from the rain, lay against her cheeks as though she had simply fallen asleep.
As though she had never truly opened them.
Ethan stared and couldn't look away. He wanted to reach out, touch her cheek, wipe the raindrop from her temple — but his fingers wouldn't obey.
They hung at his sides, heavy, foreign.
One of the medics pulled out a black plastic bag.
The sound of the zipper was loud, sharp, obscenely loud in that silence. Metal teeth parted one after another — zip-zip-zip — like a metronome counting the final seconds.
They carefully laid her inside. Legs first, then torso, then head.
Ethan's last glance fell on her hair — dark strands fanned across her shoulders, still holding the faint scent of her shampoo: something floral, light, summery.
The scent he always caught when he buried his face in her neck.
The zipper went back up. Pulled tight. Final. Black plastic closed over her face, and that was it — no last touch remained. No look. No warmth. No chance to say what he hadn't said earlier.
Ethan's heart seemed to stop for a moment — not metaphorically, but physically: one beat skipped, his chest squeezed into a vacuum, and the world went silent for a second.
Off to the side, by a black SUV with tinted windows, stood Laurent.
He leaned lazily against the door, arms crossed over his chest.
Rain streamed down his face, but he didn't even blink. Drops rolled over high cheekbones, down his chin, falling onto the collar of his expensive black coat.
He yawned — slowly, deliberately, baring sharp fangs that gleamed in the lamplight like wet blades.
"Let's go," he said calmly, almost bored, to his companions. His voice was soft, velvety, as though he were suggesting they stop for coffee.
"We're just wasting time."