Heather could see the grin on Conner's face, clear as day. It was the kind of smile that always meant trouble—or at the very least, mischief.
"What are you smiling for?" she asked, her light Scottish accent lacing the words with curiosity.
Conner barely spared her a glance, still focused ahead. "Just trying to get Sonetto here before the first bell goes off," he said, as if that explained everything.
As he lowered his gaze to his phone, something on Heather's wrist caught his eye—a bright yellow band with 'Caution' printed across it. His grin faded.
"Oh." His voice shifted, quieter now, tinged with concern. "Did you get your ration yet?"
Heather hesitated, her eyes flicking down as if the answer was written on the ground. "Umm, no. Not yet," she admitted. "They told me I'd have to come back later, since I'm labelled Non-Priority."
Conner's jaw tightened. His fingers curled around his phone before he shoved it into his pocket. "Bloody hell…" he muttered, his frustration barely contained. "Where's that pin you had? I'll give you some."
Heather shook her head, already knowing where this was going. "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Conner. I'll be fine."
But he wasn't listening. Or maybe he was just ignoring her. Either way, he was already digging through his bag, searching for a pin—or anything sharp enough to draw blood.
Heather sighed, watching him with a mix of exasperation and quiet gratitude. Then, despite herself, she smiled.
'Same old Conner'. She thought
Conner was a simple guy—relatively speaking. His hair fell in a brown side-fringe, not out of any stylistic intent, but because he'd never seen a reason to change it. So, it stayed the same.
Around his neck, he wore a cross—with a carved Jesus already crucified upon it. Yet, despite the symbolic weight, he never engaged with religion. Heather often wondered why he even wore it to begin with.
But Heather wasn't as simple as Conner.
Her black hair was always neatly tied back in a classy ponytail, framing a face sharpened by intelligence and quiet resolve. Rimless glasses perched on her nose—not for fashion, but necessity. She saw the world clearly, in more ways than one.
But Heather was also a half-vampire.
Like most turned vampires, they could receive blood transfusions to attempt to reverse the effects of vampirism—provided the donor had the same blood type. And if they did, one of three things would happen.
The rarest outcome: they reverted back to being human. This is highly unlikely. As for the reversal to work, the transfusion had to come from the victim's own uncontaminated blood, and it needed to happen within three hours of being bitten. A somewhat narrow window for treatment.
The biggest obstacle? Blood loss. A vampire's bite wasn't just about turning prey—it drained them, leaving their bodies weak, and their minds fogged. Memory loss and unconsciousness are very common side effects, making it incredibly difficult for those isolated to be treated in time.
The second possible outcome is that they become a 'Half-Vampire.' This occurs when a person is treated within two days of being bitten. Even if they received a full blood transfusion, it would not reverse the transformation; they would still become a Half-Vampire. Heather's among these.
The key difference between Vampires and Half-Vampires is in their needs. Half-vampires are not infectious, meaning they cannot spread vampirism through bites. They have their fangs either filed down or removed entirely so to signify that they're no longer a vampire. Additionally, they require far less blood to sustain themselves in their day-to-day lives, allowing them to coexist more easily with humans.
The final outcome is incredibly unlikely. But if the body cannot withstand either the effects of vampirism or its attempted reversal, will cause the afflicted's organs to rupture, forcing them to die in agony. The exact reason isn't known to the public, however.
"Goddamn it… I don't even have a pen," Conner muttered, clearly annoyed.
But Heather sighed, then smiled, pulling out what looked like the sharp end of a protractor pin.
"Hey, Conner," she called, trying to get his attention.
"Hmm?" Conner looked up—just in time to feel a sharp prick on his hand.
"Ouch, the fuck?!" He jerked back, staring at the tiny wound where Heather had lightly stabbed him. It wasn't deep—just enough to draw a thin bead of blood. Before he could say anything else, Heather grabbed his hand, her eyes locked on the crimson drop forming on his skin.
"Can I…?" she asked, tilting her head and giving him her best puppy-dog eyes.
"I thought you said you were fine?" Conner said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Heather smirked. "I could hardly refuse after seeing how much you wanted me to have it, now could I?"
Conner chuckled, shaking his head. "You got me there," he admitted.
Heather pressed her lips to the top of Conner's hand and began to suck—hard. She was desperate, like she hadn't fed in days. He could already tell that the mark she'd leave would be bright red and impossible to ignore.
"Ugh…!" Conner tried to stifle a groan, but it slipped out anyway.
That was when Heather noticed. The sound made her pause—only then realizing he was in pain.
"Oh god, no!" Heather gasped, covering her mouth with both hands as guilt washed over her. "Conner, I'm so sorry!"
Conner clenched his hand, gripping it tightly with his other to dull the lingering sting.
"Don't be," he said, forcing a smirk. "You'd make a great escort like that."
Heather blinked, her concern only deepening. "Escort? You mean… to a hospital? For your hand?"
She was completely serious. Conner stared at her for a moment before letting out a dry chuckle. "Never mind."
Conner clenched his hand, then shook it out, trying to ease the pain. As he looked up, his eyes locked onto a figure at the end of the street—Sonetto—closing in fast.
"There she is… she's so predictable," Conner muttered.
Heather followed his line of sight, spotting Sonetto, even from a distance, there was an undeniable intensity in her movements—quick, deliberate, like she had already decided exactly how this encounter would go.
Conner exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for whatever was coming. He took a step back, glancing at Heather. "I'll talk to you later."
Heather hesitated for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small nod, she tucked her hands into her pockets and took a step away.
…
The classroom was silent, aside from the faint scratching of pencils against paper. Conner sat at his desk, arms crossed, his gaze drifting lazily around the room. Unlike his classmates, he had already finished his work. There was nothing left to do, nothing to occupy his mind—just the dull passage of time.
He exhaled through his nose, shifting in his seat before deciding to break the monotony. "Hey, sir, can I—"
Before he could finish his sentence, a heavy thud echoed from behind him.
All the other students turned their heads, confused by the sudden noise. Conner furrowed his brows and glanced over his shoulder.
Another female student next to Sonetto had collapsed on their desk.
Her head lay motionless on her desk, her body slumped forward, completely still.
For a moment, Conner just stared. Then the realization hit—she wasn't moving. The girl was unconscious.