Damon's heart skipped a beat. He rushed to the bathroom, flipping on the lights. The pale glow illuminated his reflection, and for a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him.
His skin looked too pale. His pupils too sharp. His irises… not fully red, but flecked with crimson, like someone had dripped ink into a glass of water and hadn't stirred it all the way.
"No," he muttered. "That's not possible."
Damon froze. His mind was in a complete mess. First, it was the coming back in time, and now this? No. He was going crazy. He was sure of it. He was going fucking crazy!
"Shit," he whispered. His throat burned. His teeth ached. He wasn't just hungry. He was starving.
And not for food.
How could this be happening? He was just playing a vampire in a freaking game so why was he feeling like this in fucking real life. That was a game and this was the real life, damn it!
He hadn't fully believed it when Bloodreign had told him she had sent him back in time, but now he couldn't ignore it any longer. The proof was right there, staring at his face.
He gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles white, breathing ragged. His reflection stared back with a haunted hunger—half man, half monster. It wasn't just roleplay anymore. This wasn't some immersive side effect of a next-gen gaming rig.
The lines between Earth Online and reality weren't just blurred… they were vanishing.
It was not a distant possibility. It was not a problem for the future. This was happening now. Right now. In real time!
Damon's fingers brushed against his lips again, tracing the sharp canines that hadn't been there before. His mind reeled. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't possible. It shouldn't be possible.
And yet it was happening. The ache in his throat, the way his entire body thrummed with tension and need—it was all too real.
He turned on the tap and splashed cold water over his face, hoping it would shock him back to normalcy. It didn't. The burning hunger remained, coiled deep in his core like a living thing. He could feel it whispering at the edge of his mind. Blood. He needed blood. Not steak, not sugar, not caffeine—blood.
"Goddamn it," he hissed, slamming his fist against the mirror. The glass cracked, webbing out from the impact like a spider's web, and his bleeding knuckles only made the scent worse. He stared at the trickle of crimson on his skin.
His pupils dilated. Like an animal, he licked his own blood in a frenzy, but it did little to help his hunger. His blood was cold, raw, and empty. He needed something warm and nourishing, something full of life.
His blood lacked something vital. It was like trying to quench thirst with dust.
His breath came faster now, more animal than man. Every part of him ached—his gums, his chest, his core. A strange tingling had taken over his limbs, as though something ancient and primal was waking up inside him and stretching its claws after a long slumber.
He backed away from the sink, eyes locked onto his reflection. "I'm losing it," he muttered. "I'm seriously—" But the words died on his tongue. Because deep down, he already knew the truth. This wasn't some psychotic break. This wasn't a dream. This was real.
He wasn't just playing a vampire anymore. He was becoming one.
Damon stumbled back toward the bedroom, every sense overloaded. He could hear the faint drip of a faucet in the kitchen. The distant hum of a streetlamp outside. The heartbeat of the person standing outside his door.
Before he could think further, he found his body move on its own. He lunged toward the front door, the hunger thrumming like a war drum in his veins.
"Mark!" He exclaimed, only to find a stunningly beautiful face in front of him. His neighbour, the ice cold beauty.
Damon barely registered seeing her and his hands acted as if they had their own will. He grabbed the woman who was clumsily fiddling her purse for her keys and pulled her inside. In one swift motion he pinned her to the wall and sunk his fangs into her neck.
Warmth exploded across his tongue—rich, sweet, terrifyingly addictive. His body convulsed as if every nerve had suddenly remembered how to feel.
The hunger that had been gnawing at him, savage and wild, was momentarily silenced. It wasn't just about feeding. It was about becoming whole again. Every drop felt like fire and lightning braided into silk, pouring life into places that had been hollow.
The woman gasped—a soft, startled sound that barely escaped her throat. But she didn't scream. Her body went rigid, then slack, her heartbeat hammering wildly in his ears before slowing, slowing…
Damon's eyes flew wide.
What the fuck was he doing?
He ripped himself away, staggering back like he'd been electrocuted, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His lips were stained red, his mouth dripping with her blood. The woman slid down the wall, dazed, her eyes fluttering like she was caught between waking and sleep.
"Shit. Shit. Shit!" Damon backed away, his entire body trembling. His heart thundered with guilt, fear, and a lingering satisfaction.
He turned away, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes, trying to block out the image of her slack body, the taste still lingering on his tongue.
The women was only barely alive but all he could think about was how he wanted more.