The convenience store was unnervingly quiet, the only sound the occasional distant honk of a car cutting through the night. Though the city's nightlife had begun to return, Claire Morgan couldn't shake the unease coiled in her chest.
For weeks, the so-called "Vampire Attacks" had gripped the city in terror. The police had recently declared the case solved—some serial killer with a vampire fetish, now behind bars. But the details were sealed tight. Reassurances of safety rang hollow when the streets still felt like they were holding their breath.
Tonight marked the first night Claire's store resumed its 24-hour schedule. She'd been assigned the graveyard shift—not that she'd volunteered. Bills had to be paid.
So here she was, behind the register, doing her best to ignore the eerie silence pressing in from every direction.
She glanced out the storefront window. The streetlamps cast pale cones of light over empty sidewalks. The darkness between them felt thicker than usual, like it was watching her. With a sigh, Claire pulled out her phone and scrolled through videos, hoping distraction would keep the anxiety at bay.
Then—
Ding-dong.
The door's motion sensor chimed, breaking the silence. A draft of cold air followed, brushing her skin like a warning. She looked up.
A man stood at the entrance. Tall. Lean. Dressed in a black zip-up jacket that clung to him like it had been tailored by shadows. His long, silver-white hair shimmered faintly beneath the store's dim lighting, not dyed, not artificial—just otherworldly. His face was sculpted, too perfect to be real, like marble given breath. Every line and angle worked in harmony to make you stare, even when your instincts told you not to.
His eyes were worse. Icy, unreadable, ancient. Not angry. Not sad. Just… detached. Like the world wasn't worth the trouble of paying attention to. But when those eyes briefly swept over the store, Claire felt as if the temperature dropped a few degrees.
She froze.
She had never encountered such an arresting presence—a man who seemed to transcend the ordinary world, as though some celestial being had strayed into mortal realms. His very existence blurred the line between dream and waking life.
He didn't glance at her. Just moved past, toward the coolers at the back, his steps unnervingly silent. When he returned, it was with a single bottle of water.
Claire's heart thudded louder with every footfall. Her hands clenched the counter unconsciously.
Then—
Ding-dong.
The motion sensor chimed again. But this time, it was sharp, urgent.
Three men barged in. Burly, broad-shouldered, and loud. The one in front held a knife. His eyes scanned the store like a predator looking for the kill.
"This is a robbery!" he shouted, voice grating.
The tension snapped like a wire. Claire's breath caught in her throat. Her hand trembled as she reached under the counter, more out of habit than purpose. She glanced at the silver-haired stranger, desperate to see if he would react.
He didn't.
He placed the bottle on the counter. Looked at her. Then at the men. His face betrayed nothing.
"Just this," he said, voice low. Smooth. Like the thrum of a cello string.
The robber gaped. "The hell—? You blind, pretty boy?"
The man finally looked at him—really looked. A slow, cold glance that sliced through the air like a blade. Claire felt it too. Her breath hitched. Her skin prickled.
"So noisy," he murmured. As if commenting on the weather.
Then he moved.
Claire didn't even see the transition. One moment he was standing still, the next he was a blur. An elbow slammed into the leader's wrist, knocking the knife away. In the same motion, he spun the man's arm behind his back and twisted until there was a sickening pop.
The thug collapsed with a howl.
The others rushed him—too slow.
Two dull thuds. Two groans. They hit the floor clutching their stomachs, gasping for breath.
The man stood calmly, brushing non-existent dust from his jacket. His gaze dropped to the three men on the ground.
"Leave," he said, voice flat. Cold. Final.
One word. No raise in pitch. But the air warped with it.
The robbers scrambled. Limping, crawling, staggering out the door like whipped dogs. Not one dared look back. The knife lay forgotten on the floor.
Then—as if nothing had happened—he pointed at the water.
"Can I pay now?"
Claire fumbled the scanner. ""T-three bucks..."
He slid a five-dollar bill across the counter without a word, picked up the bottle, and turned to leave.
Claire opened her mouth, half-ready to remind him about the change—but the door was already swinging shut behind him, a low chime echoing in his wake.
Her fingers closed around the bill. Crisp—too crisp. As if it had just come off the press, untouched by time or hands. The paper was thinner than it should be, smoother in a way modern bills no longer were. She held it up toward the overhead light.
Series 1963.
She looked up, almost instinctively.
He was already halfway down the block.
His silver hair caught the streetlight for a brief second, a glint like moonlight before it vanished into the dark.
Her pulse was still racing. She clutched the money in her palm like it might anchor her to reality. Who was he? How had he done all that—so effortlessly?
The questions spun through her head like a dream she wasn't sure she'd wake from.