[CENTER][img]https://i.imgur.com/JaeBQ9Q.png[/img][/CENTER][CENTER][img]https://i.imgur.com/GQf6jfe.png[/img][/CENTER][center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]
[center][color=#3A5F7F][b]Location:[/b][/color] [color=#56DD73]Vex’s Apartment[/color][/center] [center][color=#3A5F7F][b]Time:[/b][/color] [color=#56DD73]Dusk[/color][/center]
[center][color=#3A5F7F][b]Interactions/Mentions:[/b][/color] [color=#56DD73]N/A[/color][/center]
[center][color=red][b]Trigger Warnings: Blood & Retching[/b][/color][/center] 
[center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center]

[color=#A9A9A9][i]Heat. Searing. Burning from inside.
Throat dry. Tongue thick.
Sweat. Everywhere sweat.
Consciousness flickered like a dying bulb.
Everything hazy, distant.[/i]

Awareness returned in fragments—his own ragged breathing, the faint hum of electricity somewhere nearby. Zachariah’s fingers clutched at crisp linen sheets, the detergent scent sharp in his nostrils beneath the layer of his own sweat. His head pounded, each throb a hammer blow against his skull, and his tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth.

His eyelids lifted slowly, fighting against their weight. The ceiling above was unfamiliar—water-stained in one corner but recently painted. The mattress beneath him felt firmer than what he was used to, the pillow flatter. This wasn’t his bed. And this definitely wasn’t his room. It had that not-quite-lived-in feeling of a guest space. Bare walls except for a single abstract print. Two mini-fridges hummed quietly against the baseboard. On a nearby chair sat folded clothes—dark jeans, black t-shirt.

When Zachariah tried to sit up, his muscles protested with the peculiar ache of disuse. How long had he been here? Days blurred together in his memory, a fever dream of shadows and whispers he couldn’t quite grasp. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cool hardwood. Standing took more effort than it should have, his legs leaden beneath him. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he shuffled toward the door, one hand braced against the wall for support.

The living area beyond opened up before him—sparse but lived-in. Stale cigarette smoke and the yeasty tang of old beer hung thick in the air. Neon lights cast colored shadows across the walls, their buzz barely audible above the building’s ancient radiator. Leather jackets draped over furniture and littered the floor like shed skins. By the door, combat boots were lined up, sized for smaller feet. A couch dominated one wall, its worn fabric patched with mismatched scraps. 

Across a coffee table, papers were scattered: invoices, supply orders, all bearing the same header—Ravens Nest. The name triggered a vague memory of a tattoo shop downtown. Sketchbooks lay open, pages filled with intricate designs of skulls, roses, and geometric patterns. 

No one else was in the apartment. 

Thirst clawed at his throat with renewed urgency, drawing him back toward the bedroom. 

Water. 
He needed water. 

Zachariah yanked open the first mini-fridge. Bottles of water filled the shelf beneath wrapped sandwiches and fruit cups. He grabbed the nearest bottle and drained it in desperate gulps. Then another, and another.

The cool liquid soothed his throat but didn’t touch the deeper ache that gnawed him hollow. 

Was it hunger? The food looked appealing enough, but eating someone’s food without permission felt wrong. 

And… that wasn’t quite it either.

Almost unconsciously, his hand drifted to the second fridge. The door swung open with a soft whoosh, and Zachariah froze.

[i]Blood bags.[/i] 

Rows of them, dark red verging on black in the refrigerator light. Dark liquid garnets. Forbidden wine. The plastic pulsed with promise, calling to something primal within him. 

Saliva flooded his mouth, throat constricting with a want so profound it made his knees weak. His vision narrowed until all he could see was that gorgeous crimson. Every cell screamed for it, fingers trembling as they reached forward. 

Just one taste. Just one—

Nausea slammed into him, sharp and cold. Zachariah stumbled backward, hand clamped over his mouth as he bolted from the room. 

Bathroom—there had to be a bathroom. He barely made it to the sink before his body convulsed with dry heaves.

When the spasms finally subsided, he gripped the porcelain edge with white knuckles and forced himself to look up.

The mirror showed a stranger. 
His skin had lost its color. 
His eyes held a glimmer he’d seen before. 
In others. 
[i]In monsters.[/i]

With trembling fingers, he pulled back his upper lip to reveal what he already knew would be there. The pad of his thumb traced the sharp point of an elongated canine, confirming his worst fear.

[color=#3A5F7F]“...Fuck.”[/color][/color]