Chapter Text
The autumn wind tugged Nathaniel's hair, the sound of water hitting concrete in his ears. The promenade was surrounded by more people than he assumed would be here by this time.
His footsteps were mixed with thousand heartbeats, a thousand pulses of blood just out of reach. A seagull ripped a fish apart a hundred meters away, the metallic scent hitting him like a slap. A couple argued somewhere behind him, their voices drilling into his skull.
A commotion snapped his attention.
In an area where light barely reached, a large middle-aged man cornered a teenager, a knife in his hand. The kid slipped away and ran full speed without looking back. The man snarled and started after him.
So hungry.
Nathaniel's body moved before his brain agreed.
He slammed the man into the warehouse wall, one hand clamping over his mouth. The other twisted the knife hand until bone popped. The sound was clean. Sweet. A muffled scream vibrated against his palm.
Nathaniel hauled him into the narrow pitch-black alley between two warehouses.
The man’s eyes were wide with terror, the fight slowly leaving him along with his courage. When Nathaniel was sure no one could see, his fangs pierced skin. Warmth flooded his mouth.
Cheap blood. Alcohol. Salt. Poor habits. Not the best. It would have to do.
The man's heartbeat fluttered.
Slowed.
Then stopped.
After nearly draining him, Nathaniel erased the marks. The ringing in his ears subsided into nothing.
The night no longer clawed at him. He picked up the wallet that had dropped to the floor, a worn work ID behind the piles of trash.
Josh Hughes. Moriyama Companies, Textile Factory.
A bitter smile touched Nathaniel's lips. Of course. Even his random meal was tied to them.
He pocketed the badge and slid the body into the black water. The port had swallowed worse.
The alley was clean. No bloodstains, no traces left to follow. There never were.
The tension in his limbs eased for the first time in days. He hadn't fed in nearly two weeks. The taste of the man’s blood wasn’t very satisfying, but doing something so regular in his schedule calmed him. Routine had always done that.
Killing had always done that.
No witnesses. No attachments. Nothing close enough to bleed.
He took a breath. Waves crashed against the shore, his senses settling into their natural rhythm.
He cracked his neck and looked around.
The United States.
A place he'd swore he'd never return to. Every memory he had of this country was soaked in pain, most of them courtesy of the disgusting creature he'd been forced to call father. The only fond memory was of that man's death, and even that satisfaction had been spoiled by his dying mother handing him over to his uncle.
"Take care of him," she had whispered to Stuart, burn marks all over her body. "Hone him into the weapon he was meant to be."
A weapon.
After everything, she couldn't let him have a peaceful life even after her death. His mother, who had once tried to protect him, had sealed his fate just like that.
Though ten-year-old him—taught only to kill and survive through his literal and figurative thirst for blood—wouldn't have known what to do with peace anyway.
And now he was here back again.
So much for his grand exit at eighteen.
His one deal with his uncle—freedom from the family in exchange for a single future favour—had seemed like a clean break. He'd known something was off when Stuart waited six years to use it. Thinking his uncle would use this favour for something not bothersome was his mistake.
He'd stayed in countless places away from the UK for personal and family business. Experience told him this wouldn't be a hard mission. It wouldn't be easy, but that wasn't the issue.
He just didn't want to be here.
He exhaled and stepped out of the alley. His mind had been blurry on the walk to the port, but he was sure there was nothing to find here. He'd look around on his way back to his flat.
His gaze drifted to the overwhelming amount of skyscrapers downtown. One structure tall enough to be seen from anywhere in the city caught his attention: a spiraling cylindrical tower, like a black full metal jacket bullet aimed at the sky. The Everest Tower of the Moriyama Foundation.
Nathaniel cracked his knuckles.
If Stuart's request involved anyone other than the Moriyamas, he'd have found a way around it. Forced his uncle to spend the deal on something else. But the Moriyamas bothered him. Anger simmered every time their name crossed his mind. Not only were they associated with that man, but they were also the type of vampires Nathaniel despised most—those who saw humans as livestock, believing humanity belonged to them by right of strength. The same fucking arrogance his father had prided himself on. Arrogant and short-sighted.
Humans were weaker, yes. But they were still intelligent. Clever. Dangerous when underestimated.
And useful.
Treating people like cattle only bred problems.
The Moriyamas never understood that.
Their public image as "good-hearted philanthropists" was so different from their real identity, it was a wonder anyone still believed they acted in good faith.
But that facade protected them.
Attacking them without exposing the truth first would only backfire.
Philanthropy was their shield.
He would rip it away.
Then deal with what bled underneath.
The wind caressed his skin as he walked toward the quieter part of the city. The street was lit by a few streetlights and a flickering neon sign ahead. The Foxhole. A bar. He filed the name away.
As he passed the car park, a car near the door caught his attention. Sleek. Expensive-looking. Neil didn't care about cars, but even he could tell this one cost more than most people made in a year. He spared it a glance and moved on. People had strange priorities. Maybe he'd meet the owner when he came back.
Now sated, he returned to his flat. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The tension in his muscles had loosened. Feeding restored him, as it always had. Predictable. Necessary. Unshakably his.
Damning, but familiar.
He pulled the badge from his pocket, examining it under the dim light. Expired two years ago.
Nathaniel sat on his bed and pulled out his laptop. A quick search confirmed it: the factory Hughes had worked for had shut down around the same time the ID expired. Official reports said a technical problem had occurred, but knowing the Moriyamas, that was probably bullshit. He looked outside at the rain. He could look more into it tomorrow.
His suitcase lay empty beside an unopened duffel by the bed. From the inner part, he pulled out his forged passport. Inside the dark blue cover was a new identity.
Neil Josten.
Professional photographer. Specializing in nature and urban landscapes.
Funny. He called the Moriyamas two-faced, yet he'd worn at least twenty faces over the course of his life.
This was just the latest. Another skin to step into. Another temporary lie to live.
He snapped the passport shut and turned off the lights. The room filled with darkness.
—————
Andrew set the papers down to his desk.
"That will be all for today." He turned to the class. "Any questions?"
A student near the front raised his hand. "Is it true you killed a vampire all by yourself?"
Hushed voices filled the lecture hall.
"Any questions not related to the topics on the syllabus will not be answered any time this semester." Andrew pushed his glasses up. "We are here to discuss literature, not my personal life. Understood?"
A few nods. Silence.
"Great. If you don't have any questions, you're free to leave."
The students scrambled to pack up. Andrew was gathering his things when Kevin walked up to him.
He didn't look up. "What do you want?"
"A nice greeting. How did that student hear about that?"
"How am I supposed to know?" Andrew slung his bag over his shoulder. "If you want to talk, try it when I'm free. Standing outside the door for ten minutes doesn't work. You were distracting the students."
"I thought you'd finish earlier today. It's the first day of classes."
Andrew didn't bother answering. He walked out, Kevin running up to catch him before he was locked in the room.
Kevin followed behind him to his office.
"Are you going to listen to me?"
Andrew stood with his hand on the door handle. It didn't feel like he had a choice not to, so he turned around to face him. Kevin glanced around to make sure nobody was within the hearing distance. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned his face back to Andrew.
"The Moriyamas' activity is rising again." His voice was low despite the lack of company. "Or at least we're assuming it's the Moriyamas. More people are disappearing only to be found a month later, dead with puncture wounds on their necks. The bodies found the last two months were oddly mostly younger than thirty."
Andrew pressed his lips together. "Any new leads?"
"…None yet." Kevin frowned.
"Perfect." Andrew unlocked his office. "I'm going to The Foxhole today. I'll patrol that area afterwards."
Kevin placed his hand on the door before Andrew could close it on his face. "Hey, I know you don't like to hear this, but be careful. They're gaining power way faster than us. It's not safe to face them alone."
Andrew glared. "Your concern for me is unnecessary. Keep looking and tell me when you find something."
His hand gripped the door handle hard enough to make his knuckles go white before he pushed it shut, cutting off the conversation. Kevin's words didn't matter. Nothing did, not right now.
He dropped his stuff on the floor and massaged his temples.
Not a single day of break.
Sometimes he wondered who could've hated humans so much that they sent vampires to live among them. Made them so powerful it was nearly impossible to face one alone.
His jaw clenched as he thought about what Kevin said.
Vampires were nothing but parasites. Despicable creatures who never should have existed in the first place. People like Renee loved to argue there were good vampires out there. That his views were too harsh.
Bullshit.
He hadn't met a single vampire—and he'd met many—who wasn't bloodthirsty and only used their strength to take advantage of innocent humans. It wasn't that he cared about the well-being of other people. It simply irritated him that vampires seemed to think everything belonged to them. Every vampire he'd had the displeasure of knowing thought humans were nothing but flies in their way, despite the fact there were more humans on Earth than vampires.
So, yes. He was going to think vampires were quite literally bloodsuckers. No matter what.
He glanced at the clock. If he wanted to be done with patrolling before midnight, he should get going now. He grabbed his car keys and drove to the bar. His car, a dark gray McLaren 570S, stood out next to the other cars in the parking lot. It was almost impossible not to know when he was somewhere because his car always pulled attention, but that was a slight inconvenience for what he got in return.
The bell on the door rang as the inside of The Foxhole came into view. There was barely any noise with only a few customers in sight.
Wymack, sitting behind the counter, raised his head at the sound. He got up and passed a glass toward Andrew, who slid onto one of the bar stools in front of him.
"Kevin told me you were coming."
Andrew didn't meet his gaze as he turned the glass in his hands.
"He also told me about your plans. I already had a few people look over this area. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but some of your men are blind." Andrew raised his head. "I don't trust their work. Neither should you."
"Only you would tell your boss how to do his job." Wymack scoffed a laugh. "We don't have the backing of law enforcement and each district's crew sticks to their own problems. The only advantage we have over vampires is our quantity. I can't just not trust the word of the other hunters and get rid of them. We need everyone we can find, no matter how insufficient they are."
"A shame."
"A shame, really." He wiped the counter as he talked. "You're free to patrol again, but you need to start trusting your co-workers more, Minyard. No man is an island."
"I think I can make my own decisions, Wymack."
"I know you can. It's beneficial to me when you decide to work so hard. But you can't do all the work alone. Isolating yourself to go after them will only lead to burnout—or worse, death. We can't afford to lose someone like you."
"Right." Andrew chugged the rest of his drink and stood. "Your son and I already went over this. You can ask him how it went. Any other unwanted comments on how I should live my life?"
"How you live your life doesn't concern me." Wymack took Andrew's empty glass. "But how it affects your performance does. Don't forget that."
Andrew didn't answer. He grabbed his jacket and walked out before Wymack could say anything else.
He left his car where it was and started on foot, circling the block before heading toward the promenade. The area was calm. The wind softly caressed his skin.
Couples walked past without a second glance. Vendors packed up for the night. No signs of a struggle, no panicked movement, no familiar patterns that usually preceded trouble.
The sun was shining its last rays by the coast. The chatter of people mixed with the screeching of sea gulls over head. He couldn't find anything new just like whoever Wymack had sent to search here had said.
A sharp wind fluttered his clothes, biting at his exposed skin. He put his hands in his jacket. His breath came out in visible clouds. The sky was dark, no stars visible with all the light in the city. Gray clouds gathered above.
He turned to go back to The Foxhole when a shiver went down his spine.
He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. It wasn't the cold. He looked around. Everyone was behaving the same way as before.
But something felt wrong. Unusual.
He began wandering. His feet took him to an area between two warehouses where light barely reached. The air felt heavier here, the sounds of the city muffled as he was swallowed by the dark alley. He switched on his phone's flashlight and ventured down the narrow pathway, his free hand tightening around his knife. His eyes scanned for threats.
Rain brushed his face when he reached the end.
Nothing.
Nothing was here.
Not even a discarded scrap of paper. Only the sound of rain and the hum of distant city life. He cursed under his breath. Too many dead ends.
Maybe Wymack was right. Maybe he needed to relax.
He sighed as he looked up. His clothes were already drenched and he didn't have an umbrella.
Great.
He stood shivering under a metal canopy of a building until the rain stopped and he made his way back to his car.
Not bothering to go back inside the bar, he got into his car and drove home. He huffed as he stripped out of his wet clothes, hoping his car's seat wouldn't be damaged by the water.
Soon, the bathroom was filled with steam as he stood under scorching hot water. Not even the heat could take the tingling cold sensation in his veins.
The promenade. The alley. Every step he'd taken, every corner he'd checked. Nothing out of place. Nothing he could justify acting on. Only that feeling, and no evidence to anchor it.
Maybe that was the problem. Or maybe it meant there was no problem at all.
He grabbed the bottle and worked shampoo into his hair. Even if he hated vampires, the truth was that hunter work only ever held his attention when there was something to solve. Most days it was similar to his professor job—dulled into routine, long hours with nothing worth chasing. But every so often, something snagged him. A pattern. A wrongness he couldn't let go of. When that happened, it swallowed everything else. One unanswered question, and suddenly everything else went quiet.
Wymack had warned him about that. About narrowing his world until there was nothing left but the hunt. About how easy it was to let a single thread tighten until it cut off the rest of his life.
Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe the feeling only lingered because he kept circling it. If he turned his attention elsewhere, it might loosen on its own.
Tomorrow, then. He'd try pulling his focus on something else. See if the feeling faded when he stopped feeding it. Just for once.
—————
NEIL
The next evening, the breeze coming through the car window felt warmer, the chilling wind replaced by something as warm as fresh blood.
His day had started with meeting a neighbour—Beth from downstairs with her pecan pie and kind smile. He'd taken it with a polite thanks, then dropped it straight into the bin, the sweetness of it way out of his tolerance. But her goodwill was a tool. If anyone ever questioned him, Beth would remember Neil Josten as a quiet, polite photographer who kept to himself. A normal person. That was the point.
The rest of the day had been more productive.
He'd bought a car—a burgundy 1965 Ford Mustang Fastback, the car dealer had said. Not exactly bland, but it was enough to maintain the illusion of normalcy. Neil just needed to move like a human.
With wheels acquired, he'd driven straight to the abandoned Moriyama textile factory. The one from Josh Hughes' expired ID.
It wasn't a wasted trip. The place was a rotting shell, but secrets have a way of outlasting the walls built to hide them. He'd left pleasantly satisfied, with enough to pull on when the time was right.
Now, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, the fading sun washing the streets in yellow. The bar he'd seen last night should be open right now. He did a U-turn. The neon sign for The Foxhole came into view once again. The car parked yesterday wasn't here today.
A little bell chimed softly when he entered. The air smelled like fried food, alcohol, and freshly wiped counters. The crowd was sparse, its few patrons scattered in booths or hunched alone at the bar, talking in low voices.
Behind the bar stood a middle-aged man with a steadiness to his posture that didn't match the average bartender's tired slump. His eyes swept the room with quiet vigilance. He had the energy of someone who'd already seen trouble and knew exactly where it liked to hide.
Neil took a seat at the bar, sliding onto a worn stool. The bartender approached.
"Afternoon. New around here?"
"I am." Neil smiled. "Just moved in. Saw the bar while getting familiar with the city and thought I'd stop by."
"Glad you did." The bartender didn't return the smile. "What can I get you?"
"Just a can of soda."
The bartender moved to get his drink when the bell on the door chimed again. Neil turned his head. A blond man holding a thick novel stepped inside. He slid into one of the first booths without glancing at the bar.
A can clinked in front of Neil.
"So what brings you to the city?" the bartender asked.
"Photography. I heard there were some beautiful sights," Neil said smoothly. "I'm also going to work for a nearby college."
The bartender's eyes flicked, quick and subtle, toward a corner booth. Too fast for a human to catch.
"Oh," he said. "Interesting."
Before Neil could reply, another customer called him over. Neil wrapped his hand around the cold can, his eyes involuntarily following the path of the owner's glance a second ago.
It was the blond man from before, sitting alone, absorbed in his novel.
Odd sight in a bar.
Intrinsically drawn to contradictions, Neil moved toward the booth. He noted how the bartender's eyebrows knitted as he watched him go before turning back to the customer in front of him.
He slid into the seat across from the man.
"Is this seat taken?"
"Is now." The man didn't look up.
"Excellent." Neil leaned back. "I was hoping for a talkative companion."
Hazel eyes flicked up, flat and unimpressed. They lingered just a fraction too long before dropping back to the page.
"And I was hoping for quiet." He turned a page. "Bad night for both of us."
"Unfortunate." Neil glanced at the book. "You always read in places like this?"
"Only when I get to sit in peace."
"That sounds targeted."
"Most things are."
Neil smirked. "Then you meant to sit alone."
"I did."
"And now?"
The man looked back at him again. "Now you're here."
"Tragic."
"And annoying."
Neil rested his chin on his hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You could always ask me to leave."
"Are you always this desperate for attention, or am I just special?"
"Maybe a bit of both." Neil drummed his fingers lightly on the table, eyes fixed on him.
For a fraction of a second, he could have sworn he heard the man's heartbeat stutter against his ribs. In the exact same instant, the bell above the door jangled as someone stepped inside. Neil's eyes darted back to the man's face, still a perfect bored mask. A trick of the ear, then. Probably.
The man turned back to his book, completely ignoring him.
Neil said nothing else. He sipped his drink and continued studying him.
Considering the bartender had glanced this way, Neil assumed he must be somehow related to Mogya University—the nearby college where Neil Josten had a job to take campus pictures in addition to his individual photography. The man looked around Neil's age, maybe a year or two older. So, probably a lecturer or an assistant professor. Or grad student. All of these options required a decent profile. His figure suggested a somewhat active life, but not quite bulky. Short. Black armbands on the forearms—habit, fashion, or something else? Hard to tell.
All things aside, he smelled human. Entirely human.
But he had a weird vibe. Something Neil couldn't put a finger on, a vague feeling that wouldn't let go. The way he carried himself almost made him feel like law enforcement, someone who'd devoted his life to chasing criminals.
Neil kept sipping from the can, his eyes occasionally slipping back to the man, pondering where he remembered this feeling from. His thought process kept getting cut by the presence of an intense gaze over him.
Neil turned his head to smile at the bartender glaring at him. Ever since the customer bothering him had left, the bartender had been staring into this booth. It was like he was trying to look into Neil's soul. He had no idea what relationship the bartender and this man could have, but it was drawing unnecessary attention.
A page turned.
Neil looked back. The man was beginning a new chapter.
"Well." Neil stood. "I should get going."
The man looked up.
"Thanks for the conversation." Neil smiled. "Sorry for bothering you. Mind if I ask your name?"
There was a beat of silence. Flat eyes assessed him.
"Andrew."
Neil nodded. Andrew. "Nice to meet you, Andrew. I'm Neil."
He didn't offer his hand. He didn't expect Andrew to take it.
He gave the bartender a polite nod and slipped out as quietly as he'd come.
As he was about to get into the driver's seat, he saw the expensive car from yesterday parked a few spots next to his. Every person who'd come to the bar after him had left before him.
All… except for Andrew.
Huh.
Neil slid into his car, exhausted but restless, and drove back to his flat. He was planning on crashing for the night, but after ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, he couldn't shake the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind.
He wasn't the type to let a stranger's vibe bother him, but this felt different. Andrew. There was something… off about him.
It didn't take long before he was grabbing his laptop. He hated not knowing what he was dealing with, hated the feeling of being in the dark. Making sure there was no way to track him, his fingers started moving with practiced precision.
Andrew. Andrew… what?
He started with the college directory.
There.
Andrew Joseph Minyard. Assistant English Professor.
The photo showed a face carefully stripped of feeling. Neil studied the flat hazel eyes, the set mouth. A man who'd built a wall and called it a personality.
Neil skimmed through Andrew's courses listed below his picture. His cursor halted over one title: Gothic Horror.
He clicked on the course description.
…In Gothic literature, you may anticipate reading a lot of spooky old novels set in castles where species believed to be nonexistent predominate. However, such creatures are present all throughout our world. In this course, we will focus on vampires and how we came to envision our world with them roaming around before we ever knew they existed…
Neil raised his eyebrows. Could he be a vampire enthusiast? How cute. His mouth quirked.
He dug deeper, peeling back the public layers.
College diploma. High school city. Twin brother. A cousin in Germany. A criminal record. A car accident. A parade of foster homes. Shadows around a mother's death. A PhD.
Neil leaned into the screen, barely blinking as he read. The data painted a stark, jagged life. He felt a distant, surprising flicker—not empathy, but recognition.
A life shaped by absence and violence.
Violence answered with violence. A familiar language. A mirror held at a distance.
He was about to close his laptop, thinking there couldn't be anything else to find, when a search algorithm he'd left running dinged. It found a video buried deep in the bowels of the internet, labeled with an obscure date and a seemingly random file name.
He clicked.
Grainy footage. A burned-out warehouse. Fire stark against the night. Burned vampires, charred and still on the floor. Several figures standing. Neil paused the video. Zoomed. A blur of blond hair, a flash of a black jacket, turning from the blaze.
Oh.
A slow, cruel smile cut across Neil's face.
He pulled the hunter registries next, cracking through the encryptions. The smile grew wider at a file he found.
Minyard, Andrew J.
Age at incident: 16.
Vampire attack on twin brother Aaron Minyard. Subject neutralized via improvised stake through the heart. No hunter assistance. No follow-up.
Impossible. A kid, barely out of his teens, taking down a vampire.
But there it was.
Neil's gaze hovered over the screen as he read the rest of the file. Now it made sense. That odd feeling—this man wasn't just chasing criminals. He was hunting something specific. Only certain species fit that profile.
Neil kept digging, cross-referencing names from the file against campus directories and hunter networks.
The bartender was David Wymack. Allison Reynolds taught fashion design. Matthew Boyd was in health sciences. Renee Walker—ethics professor, former hunter. All of them were connected, a web of hunters pretending to be academics.
And then there was Kevin Day. History professor.
Neil's fingers stilled over the keyboard.
He remembered Kevin.
The Moriyamas' "public human." They were always fond of publicity stunts. One of that was their "human project"—meant to prove their "benevolence." They'd taken Kevin in and even given him a companion. Jean.
Neil had paid little attention to the Moriyamas' pet humans at the time, but he knew how the story ended. He remembered hearing whispers about Jean's death. The official story was vague—a tragic accident within the household. Nobody was ever named, but everyone understood: someone in the family had done it. A lesson in obedience, a fit of rage, a warning. The reasons in vampire families were always petty and fatal.
Kevin, however, was let go. The official line was that his "service" was complete. Neil had always suspected the real reason was quieter. Smarter. A payoff in freedom for his silence. Send the traumatized boy away, and the scandal of his friend's death goes with him. Less mercy than convenience. If they couldn't kill him, then they'd silence him. They'd always wanted to get rid of their pet humans anyway. This was a good excuse for them.
And now, here he was. A history professor and, on the side, a vampire hunter. Smart or desperate. Possibly both.
No wonder.
Neil ran his hand through his hair, glancing back at the names and faces. Mogya University was a minefield. They were everywhere. One wrong move, and he'd be surrounded.
A laugh, dry and quiet, escaped him. He hadn't disliked Andrew and David. It'd be a pity if he had to kill them.
But it wouldn't come to that. He had other plans for them.
Neil closed everything but Andrew's picture and stared at it for a moment. He tilted his head, studying that carefully composed stoic expression. What would it take, he wondered, to shatter that calm?
He circled the image of Andrew on the screen, his finger tracing the outline of his face.
"Hello, little hunter."
With a final look, he snapped the laptop shut, plunging the room back into darkness. He leaned back, planning his next course of action, the ghost of a grin still on his lips.