“I don’t want to do this,” he replies in a barely audible voice; his large eyes drift toward the people walking calmly by, then return to the hybrid’s stern face. “I don’t want to kill innocent people to survive, it’s not right. It goes against my morals!”

The man slowly removes his sunglasses, folds them, and sets them on the center console. They haven’t known each other long, but Michael has decided he dislikes it when Blade looks at him without his shades; his irises are an unnatural amber, and their intensity makes him feel exposed, if not downright naked.

“No one is forcing you to drink their blood; I already told you that as long as you’re with me, you’ll subsist on serums.”

“But the serum doesn’t quench the thirst,” Michael insists, clasping his hands in his lap and beginning to fidget with his long fingers. “I can’t look at people on the street without thinking about… about draining their blood,” he stammers at the end, then shakes his head as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

Blade remains silent for a few seconds, his amber eyes still fixed on Michael. It’s so strange and unnatural to see a vampire show such decency, hell, he even behaves better than many hybrids. If he had been found by the rest of the bloodsuckers, Blade is certain he wouldn’t have survived a millisecond. He turns his gaze back to the street and grips the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his strength; a newborn vampire with the mindset of a monk and an existential crisis is the last thing he needed on his agenda.

“The thirst never goes away, Michael,” Blade says, his tone almost mocking as he speaks the name. “You learn to live with it, that’s all.”

Silence falls over the car’s interior again. Michael looks down at his hands and starts fidgeting with them. Learning to live with it, it sounds so simple coming from the hunter, but he can’t hear every heartbeat on the street without feeling tortured.

Blade clicks his tongue. He reaches into the inner pockets of his trench coat and pulls out a long tube containing a red substance and a small device with a needle. Michael’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of the objects; he clenches his hands into nervous fists, watches the hunter arrange the items and moistens his lips.

“I’m not that thirsty yet…” he murmurs anxiously.

Blade glances at him sideways. “I know. But your fidgeting is making it hard to concentrate. I need you calm,” he growls dismissively. He pulls off his leather gloves and turns toward him, serum in hand. “Tilt your head.”

“I can do it myself…”

One of Blade’s large hands grips his neck and abruptly pulls him close, pressing his back against the hunter’s solid chest while forcefully tilting his head to expose the pale line of his throat. Michael gasps heavily at the sudden force, feeling the other’s body heat radiating against his own cold skin. The thumb of the hand holding him slowly traces the vein, and he stifles a trembling moan at the shock of the temperature difference.

“Hold still.”

The prick is quick, but the serum burns like liquid fire as it enters his system. He arches his back and digs his fingers into the hunter’s thighs with inhuman strength, letting out a harrowing cry that dissolves into a snarl of pain as his fangs descend, piercing his lower lip. Blade remains unmoved by the sudden grip, though he tightens his hold on Michael’s jaw to keep his head from moving.

It takes a few more seconds for the fluid to dissipate, Michael gasps raggedly and slumps against Blade’s shoulder, his fingers, previously dug into the hunter’s legs, slowly relaxing and leaving crumpled marks on the tactical trousers. He feels Blade’s chest rising and falling steadily against his back; the hunter doesn’t push him away immediately, though he eases the pressure of his fingers on Michael’s jaw. With his free hand, he withdraws the needle from the skin and discards it on the console.

“I told you to stay still,” he says, his voice so close to Michael’s ear that it vibrates against his skin, sending a faint shiver down his spine.

It takes Michael a few seconds to regain control of his body; he pulls away from Blade’s chest, shuffling back to his seat and leaning against it. His cheeks feel like they’re burning with embarrassment, even though they aren’t.

“I hope that dose keeps you quiet for a good while,” Blade growls, pulling his gloves back on. He grabs his glasses from the console but gives Michael one last look before putting them on. “Sleep. We’ve got a long way to go,” he says, hiding his amber eyes. “And if you wake up, don’t start with your preaching.”

Michael curls up in his seat, hugging himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the tingling sensation of the serum in his veins.

Gradually, his curly head lolls to the side with the motion of the vehicle, eventually settling into an awkward position against the door frame.

Minutes and hours pass, and the sun begins to rise over the horizon. Blade glances away from the road to look at Michael and curses under his breath; he has to cover him before the rays touch his skin, or he’ll turn to ash.

He pulls over abruptly and unbuckles his seatbelt. He strips off his heavy trench coat and drapes it over Michael, making sure to cover him from head to toe.

Beneath the heavy leather, the neophyte barely stirs. The serum has plunged him into an almost human lethargy, lulled by the residual warmth the garment still holds from Blade’s body.

The hunter stares at him for another second, ensuring not a single curl is exposed to the rising sun; he quickly realizes his own idiocy and lets out a scornful snort. He looked so ridiculous worrying about a blood-draining creature, yet here he was.

He starts the engine with a violent roar and rejoins the road, continuing on his way as the sun climbed the sky.

.

.

.

Michael wakes with a gasp, sitting up in the bed. He glances around in panic, but a wave of relief washes over him as soon as he spots Blade’s weapons arranged on the wall. This must be the hideout Blade had mentioned earlier, and apparently, this is his room…

He gets out of bed and begins to quietly look around the place. It’s small; the bed is a simple single, and there are lockers against the wall and a flowerpot beside the door. He approaches the table where the sword rests, there’s also an old, worn ID card featuring a woman’s photo. He picks it up cautiously:

Vanessa Brooks.

Who is she?

He studies the ID closely. Most of the details are illegible due to age, which only piqued his curiosity further. The woman in the picture has an afro and a radiant smile that highlights her beautiful features.

“Put that down.”

Michael jumps, the piece of plastic slips from his fingers and falls back onto the table. He turns his head toward the doorway where Blade is standing. He isn’t wearing his trench coat, instead, he’s clad in a tight black t-shirt and his vest. His eyes are uncovered again, giving Michael an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a faint voice, lowering his gaze to his feet. “It’s just… I was curious. I didn’t mean to pry…”

Blade doesn’t answer immediately. He walks into the room until he’s standing right beside Michael, then roughly grabs the ID card and stuffs it into his trouser pocket without looking at it.

“We don’t allow ourselves to be curious here,” he growls, fixing his intense gaze on him. “It’s a distraction that’ll turn you to ash when you least expect it. So don’t touch what isn’t yours.”

Michael shrinks back slightly, feeling small beneath the hunter’s imposing figure. Blade’s voice feels like a physical blow in itself, but this time there is something different about it that isn't quite captured.

He murmurs another apology and watches Blade select some of his weapons.

“Who is Vanessa?” he dares to ask. “She seems like a sweet person.”

Blade pauses his movements and clenches his jaw tightly. “None of your business, kid,” he says in a low, grave voice.

Michael bites the inside of his cheek, ignoring the prick of his fangs this time, the rejection cuts deeper than he would have liked to admit. He steps back, leaning his weight against the edge of the table, and interlaces his fingers, rubbing his thumbs together nervously. A heavy scent radiates from Blade (likely due to the tension of the moment): a blend of spicy notes and something purely human that sparks a faint, guilty tingle at the base of his fangs.

“Right—I’m sorry,” he whispers. He brings a hand to his mouth and discreetly touches the skin over his gums, trying to soothe the tingling sensation; the sudden release of the hunter’s scent had stirred a certain hunger in him.

Suddenly, his wrist is gripped tightly, and in an instant, he finds himself pinned chest-down against the table. Michael gasps in surprise and tries to lift his head, but Blade holds it down with one hand while immobilizing both of Michael’s arms with the other.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Blade hisses close to his ear. The pressure on his wrists is firm, reminding Michael of the vast difference in strength between them.

Michael lets out a stifled whimper, panic completely washing over him. He tries to move a little, but the hunter’s weight on his back keeps him utterly motionless.

“No—it’s not what you think,” he stammers, his voice breaking with humiliation and fear. “I wasn’t going to do that… I’d never hurt you,” he blurts out in desperation, squirming slightly.

“No?” Blade moves his grip on the other’s jaw and tightens it, just enough to keep him from moving. “Don’t try to play games with me. I know exactly what a bloodsucker is thinking when it looks at me like that.”

Michael can feel the powerful rhythm of Blade’s heart against his back, a sound that, to his neophyte mind, is torturously tempting. Yet, his human side is fighting to maintain control with everything it has. Tears of frustration well up in his wide eyes but do not spill over.

“It’s your scent!” he blurts out in a choked cry. He squeezes his eyes shut to avoid seeing the hybrid’s amber irises, and tears dampen his lashes. “It’s too strong, but I’m holding back, I swear I’m trying. Please, Blade… let me go. It hurts.”

Blade doesn’t let go immediately; his fingers remain clamped on the other’s jaw, forcing him to stay in that vulnerable position against the table. He narrows his eyes, studying the tremors shaking the other’s shoulders and the look of sheer panic in his eyes. Finally, with a huff that betrays more annoyance than anger, he loosens his grip completely, setting him free.

Michael immediately pulls away, instinctively retreating as he brings his hands to his aching jaw, rubbing it to soothe the lingering pressure of the grip. He avoids meeting Blade’s eyes; humiliation and shame burn in his chest just as fiercely as fear.

Blade watches him silently from where he stands, calmly adjusting his gloves, an uneasy feeling has settled in the pit of his stomach. Vampires don’t usually cry; they often use it as a ploy to elicit pity without ever shedding a drop. But Michael… Michael’s shoulders are slumped and he looks terrified, appearing more like prey than a creature of the night.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “If my scent bothers you, learn to block it out,” he declares, turning away to grab his sword. His tone remains stern, but it no longer carries the murderous edge it held moments ago.

Michael doesn’t answer; he remains at a distance, staring at the concrete floor with his hands still pressed against his jaw, even though the hunter’s fingerprints have long since faded. A single tear slides down his pale cheek: not the watery kind humans shed, but thick, dark blood that disappears into the dark curls clinging to his face. Though Blade had seen vampires feign sorrow before, he had never actually seen them weep.

Blade stops dead in his tracks. He glances over his shoulder and spots the streak of red sliding down the neophyte’s cheek. He says nothing, though the sight unsettles him more than he would ever admit.

Without turning back, he leaves the room, slamming the door shut and leaving Michael completely alone.

.

.

.

It’s midnight. Michael had run away, making his way to an abandoned subway station far from the hideout. Dried blood rings his dark eyes, and his long lashes have stiffened slightly from the fluid. He feels like a heavy burden to Blade; he didn’t want to interfere with the hunter’s work any further.

The night chill doesn’t affect him, yet the emptiness inside him is devastating. He tries to wipe his cheeks with his jacket sleeve, scraping away the dried blood.

The sound of firm footsteps makes him tense up instantly. A musky scent fills the air, bringing a rush of relief, panic, and guilt. Blade had found him.

The hunter’s silhouette stands out against the flickering lights of the deserted station as he walks with a terrifying, unhurried calm. Michael tries to shrink further into himself, pressing his back tighter against the support pillar and pulling his knees to his chest. He wants to disappear.

He stops a few meters away from him. He’s wearing his sunglasses again, but a silent fury radiates from behind them like heat waves.

“Do you have any idea how damn stupid this was?” his voice cracks like a whip in the silence. “Any nest of bloodsuckers would’ve smelled you coming from miles away.”

“I… I didn’t want to be a burden anymore,” Michael murmurs without looking up from the floor, his voice broken by remorse. “I know you hate me, what you think of me, and you’re right. You’re better off without me.”

Blade snorts harshly and steps closer, closing the distance between them. He leans in slightly and reaches out a gloved hand to grab Michael’s arm, hauling him to his feet in one sharp motion. Michael lets out a stifled whimper at the rough handling, finding himself mere inches from the hunter’s solid chest.

“I don’t hate you, kid. I don’t even know you well enough for that,” he growls in frustration. “But if you die out there, I’ll have wasted valuable serum, and I don’t like wasting resources.”

Under the harsh fluorescent light, Blade takes a moment to study him closely. Michael is still trembling slightly, with dried traces of blood on his smooth skin.

He remains silent, slowly removing his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket. Without warning, he raises a hand; Michael squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for a blow or a shove. Instead, he feels the rough leather of the glove firmly brushing against his cheekbone, the thumb scraping away the dried blood from his cheek.

Michael slowly opens his eyes, meeting amber irises that appear strangely analytical against the contrast of dark blood on pale skin.

“You’re fragile, Michael. Too soft for this world; you’ll end up torn apart,” Blade’s voice isn’t a growl, but a low, almost intimate whisper.

“I don’t want to become something destructive,” Michael replies, his voice barely audible as he holds the other’s gaze. For the first time, he doesn’t feel intimidated by those amber eyes. “I’d rather be destroyed than lose what’s left of my humanity; that’s why I ran, I didn’t want to become a burden to you…”

The gloved thumb pauses on Michael’s cheek; for a second, the pressure eases, turning into an involuntary caress that the hunter cuts short immediately. He pulls his hand away abruptly and steps back, crossing his arms.

“If you were a burden, I would’ve left you out in the sun yesterday,” he growls, his voice returning to its usual tone. “I decided to drag you along with me from the very start.”

Michael blinks, processing the words. A small, warm feeling seems to settle in his chest.

“So… I’m staying?” he asks in a faint voice, shyly tucking a few curls behind his ear.

Blade snorts. “I didn’t even give you permission to leave,” he retorts, turning around. “Move. The scent you left is going to attract a nest of vampires if we stay any longer.”

Michael quickens his pace to follow him, keeping a reasonable distance. As they climb the stairs to the surface, the early-morning wind stirs their clothes.

Blade stops dead in his tracks before stepping out onto the main street. He reaches into the pocket of his trench coat, pulls something out, and tosses it to Michael in one swift motion. The neophyte catches the object in mid-air.

Blade’s sunglasses.

“Put them on,” Blade orders, resuming his stride. “So you don’t draw attention; your eyes are too red,” he explains.

Michael looks at the glasses in his hands and then at the hunter’s broad back, a small smile playing on his lips. Before he can put them on, Blade speaks again:

“And, Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Vanessa was my mother. She was bitten by a vampire while she was pregnant.”

Michael stands frozen on the last step, his fingers gripping the cold frames of the glasses.

“Blade…” he whispers, completely stunned.

“Don’t make questions, and don’t bother feeling sorry for me, either,” he says in a monotone voice, opening the car door. “And in case you’re wondering, my real name is Eric,” he confesses in a deep voice, sliding into the driver’s seat.

The neophyte stands frozen for another second, processing all the information revealed. He quickly pulls himself together and puts on the dark glasses; they are a bit too big for him, yet he feels a strange sense of security wearing them. He walks over to the car, gets into the passenger seat and closes the door gently.

The engine roars to life instantly, and Michael looks at Blade through the dark lenses.

“Thanks… Eric—can I call you Eric?” he asks cautiously.

Blade tenses slightly but doesn’t seem annoyed. “Absolutely not.”

Michael murmurs an “okay” and leans his head back against the seat. The car travels along the deserted streets, he adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose; for the first time since his fangs emerged, he doesn’t feel completely lost or like an aberration to both worlds, not with the man beside him, the only one capable of keeping him in check.