The following night, Claire couldn't get him out of her mind.
Ever since the events of the night before, her thoughts had been churning, restless as waves under a storm. Again and again, she found herself replaying the image of the silver-haired man—his near-flawless features, the glacial depth of his eyes, and the effortless, almost casual way he had dismantled the would-be robbers. The memory clung to her like the echo of a dream, vivid and unsettling.
She hadn't meant to fixate. And yet, somewhere between the routine clicks of the register and the hum of fluorescent lights, she'd caught herself hoping he might walk through the door again.
Maybe, she told herself, just to hear his voice once more—that low, magnetic murmur—might be enough to still the quiet thunder inside her chest.
Ding-dong.
The motion sensor chimed.
Claire's head snapped up.
But it was just Mrs. Kowalski, the elderly woman who always bought cat food at 11 PM.
"Long night, dear?" Mrs. Kowalski asked, eyeing the dark circles under Claire's eyes.
Claire forced a smile. "Just the usual."
But nothing about last night had been usual.
The clock blinked midnight. Still no silver-haired stranger.
Disappointment pooled in Claire's gut—a dull, familiar ache. But beneath it, something else pulsed. Not relief. Not even frustration. Just... anticipation, coiled tight like a spring. Maybe he wouldn't come tonight. Maybe he'd waltz in tomorrow, or next week, or in that hazy half-second between sleep and waking.
She was yawning when the night-shift replacement shuffled in—some college kid whose name tag read "Tyler" in Comic Sans. Same fluorescent glare. Same stale coffee stench. Same rustle of nylon jackets as she grabbed her bag. Everything normal.
She stepped out into the night.
The air bit gently at her cheeks—cooler than she'd expected, laced with the scent of asphalt and distant rain. The kind of breeze that didn't just brush against skin, but stirred something deeper, like a half-forgotten tune.
Claire zipped up her jacket, eyes flicking down the empty sidewalk.
She fumbled for her keys, the streetlight catching the chipped red paint of her scooter. Primavera 150 — a graduation gift to herself, from the time she still believed adulthood came with answers.
Her thumb found the ignition. The engine coughed twice, a sound like a chain-smoker clearing his throat, before sputtering to life. As she kicked up the stand, the left mirror tilted downward—just enough to reflect her own exhausted eyes, and nothing else. No silver-haired figure watching from the shadows. Only the 1963 bill, searing through the canvas of her crossbody bag like a live coal.
The ride home would take seven minutes. She'd timed it. Seven minutes of wind and stoplights and the occasional cat darting across cracked pavement. Seven minutes to wonder if tomorrow's shift would feel different.
The scooter's headlight flickered past a graffiti tag she'd never noticed before—just two letters in what looked like dried rust:
**AB**
Claire blinked — and when she looked again, it was gone.
Then her scooter skidded to a halt at the intersection, tires screeching against asphalt loud enough to startle the night awake. There—a flash of silver hair catching the streetlight, swaying like a ghostly banner in the breeze. Her lungs seized. Then, just as abruptly, the figure vanished into a narrow alley across the street.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat pulling her forward. Almost without thinking, she swerved the scooter toward the curb, kicking down the stand with a clang before sprinting into the alley. The walls pressed close, dripping with condensation and layered with graffiti that seemed to squirm in the sickly yellow light.
Silence.
Only her own footsteps echoed between the brick walls as she pushed deeper, the dim glow from the street barely outlining cracked pavement. She turned down connecting alley after alley—each emptier than the last, each whispering that the silver-haired man had been a trick of the shadows.
Just as she slowed, breath ragged with disappointment—
—a footstep.
Deliberate. Close.
Claire whirled, hope flaring—
—and found herself staring at a stranger's face.
Moonlight flooded the alley, washing the man's face in a pallid glow. His skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, but it was his eyes that froze Claire—pools of absolute black, lightless and depthless, like holes punched through reality. His body trembled, muscles twitching under some invisible strain. When his gaze locked onto hers, she saw raw anguish there, the kind that flays souls bare.
Then—shifting. A fracture in his control.
Something feral flickered behind his eyes, and Claire's instincts screamed. She tried to step back, but her legs refused. His darkness had weight; it pinned her like a butterfly to corkboard.
"I'm sorry..." The words scraped out of him, ragged. His fingers dug into his own shoulders, and dark gem-like blood welled up—too thick, too cold, proof that his veins now carried something other than life."I can't—" A wet gasp. "—hold on anymore."
His stare dropped to her throat. Pure hunger now, the last threads of humanity snapping. When his lips peeled back, the moonlight caught the glint of twin fangs.
Claire's voice came out a threadbare whisper: "Vampire?"
He flinched as if struck. A bitter laugh escaped him. "Five days ago," he hissed, "I was just... human." His pupils swallowed the moonlight whole. "Then a vampire attacked me—dragged me into an alley, bit me like I was nothing but meat." His fingers twitched toward his own neck, where two jagged scars stood livid in the pale light. "When I woke up..." His hand shot out, ice-cold fingertips grazing Claire's jugular. "I'd become what you see now." A pause. "Exactly what you see now."