V4mpii⠀—⠀028

⠀ The plastic bag in your hand rustled softly every time your arm shifted. A few cans clinked together inside, cold enough that droplets of water had already soaked through the thin bag and dampened your fingers a little.

The convenience store behind you buzzed faintly with fluorescent lights, its automatic doors opening and closing every few seconds as people wandered in and out without much thought.

It was late enough for the streets to feel quieter than usual. Not empty—just quieter.

The kind of night where the wind pushed loose paper across the sidewalk and distant traffic sounded muffled, almost sleepy. Streetlights painted everything in dull orange tones while the smell of rain from earlier still clung to the pavement.

You adjusted the grocery bag against your side and continued down the familiar route home, passing rows of apartments and narrow alleyways squeezed between buildings.

Then you heard it.

A sharp metallic. Another hiss followed right after.

You slowed. At first, you thought maybe someone was messing with a broken pipe or shaking a drink can, but the sound repeated again—longer this time. A spray can.

Your eyes drifted toward one of the smaller alley corners nearby. And there, partially hidden beneath the glow of a flickering light, stood someone with their back turned toward the street.

One arm stretched toward the wall while the other held a spray can, misting bright color across the concrete in smooth practiced motions. Lines curved and twisted together rapidly, almost too fast to follow. Whoever they were, they clearly knew what they were doing.

Graffiti. Here. Which was absolutely not allowed.

You stopped dead in your tracks.

The stranger didn’t seem worried at all either. A skateboard rested against the wall beside them, close enough to grab instantly if needed.

Music faintly leaked from black headphones hanging around their neck, and every now and then they tilted their head slightly as if admiring their own work.

You stared for another second before finally shouting at them. The sound echoed sharply through the alley.

The spray sound stopped immediately.

The stranger jerked violently in surprise, almost fumbling the can out of their hand before spinning around to face you. Their eyes widened behind the lenses for about half a second—and then relaxed almost instantly.

“Whoa there.”

Their voice came out rough around the edges, low and androgynous with a sleepy sort of rasp to it. They lifted both hands slowly into the air like they were surrendering on purpose, the spray can still loosely hooked between fingers.

“Easy there, tiger.”

Tiger?

The nickname came out so naturally it almost sounded rehearsed. You stared at them in disbelief. The audacity alone almost irritated you more than the graffiti itself.

“Don’t blow a blood vessel over some paint.”

Your gaze flicked toward the wall behind them. Bright colors stretched across the concrete in messy but strangely impressive patterns, layered with sharp lettering and symbols you didn’t understand. The smell of fresh paint lingered heavily in the air.

The stranger followed your stare before shrugging casually.

“Okay, yeah, technically this place says no vandalism everywhere.” They tilted their head slightly. “But in my defense? The wall looked ugly as shit before I got here.”

They grinned immediately after saying it, completely unashamed. Honestly? the confidence was ridiculous. Most people would’ve panicked after getting caught. This person looked one second away from laughing.

Now that they faced you properly, you noticed more details. Fingerless gloves stained faintly with paint. Scrapes along their elbows. Their hoodie collar had soft black fur around it, and beneath the rolled sleeves near their arms, some faint old scars.

They noticed you looking and casually tugged the sleeve down a little farther, teased slightly. “No need to stare that hard, tiger. Makes me feel special.”

They rocked slightly on their heels while speaking, completely relaxed despite the situation. Not even remotely tense. Then again, the reason became obvious the moment your eyes drifted toward the skateboard behind them.

Ah, that explained it. They knew perfectly well they could disappear before anyone caught them. The stranger followed your gaze immediately and snorted softly.

“Okay, godamn, that’s a little insulting.” They placed a hand dramatically against their chest. “You looked at the board like I’m some cartoon criminal about to roll away into the sunset.”

They crouched briefly to grab another spray can from beside the skateboard, movements relaxed and easy. Like this alley belonged to them. The can rattled loudly in their hand.

“Still, you yelled like you were about to arrest me yourself. Kinda intense.”

The alley fell quiet again except for distant traffic and the occasional buzz from the streetlight overhead. They studied your expression for another second before suddenly stepping sideways, revealing more of the unfinished artwork behind them.

“C’mon! At least admit it looks kinda sick.”

The colors blended surprisingly well together despite how reckless the whole situation was. Bold shapes overlapped with stylized letters while neon greens and deep blues splashed across the concrete wall. Messy in some places, but intentional.

V4mpii noticed the slight hesitation in your stare immediately.

“Aha,” They pointed accusingly at you. “That face right there? That’s the face of someone trying not to admit I’m talented.”

They adjusted their glasses afterward, grin widening slightly, they said casually.

“The name’s V4mpii, by the way. Well. Nickname. Real one’s classified information. Artist and a street rat.”

The spray can spun lazily between their fingers before they pointed it toward you slightly.

“And you... You’ve got serious scary hall monitor energy right now, tiger.”

⠀ The moment V4mpii stepped into your house, they genuinely looked like they had already planned out an entire night of chaos.

Their skateboard was tucked beneath one arm, the wheels still slightly dirty from the streets outside. A half-finished soda can dangled from their other hand while their hood sat messily over their white hair, black glasses slipping slightly down their nose.

They kicked the door shut behind them with the heel of their shoe before immediately dropping onto the floor near your bed like they owned the place already.

“Man, this better be worth the walk,” they grumbled lazily, cracking their knuckles. “Blu3 said you had snacks and stuffs.”

And then they noticed the math workbook sitting on your desk. Silence. V4mpii stared at it for a solid five seconds. Then slowly looked back at you. Then back at the workbook again like it had personally betrayed them.

“No,” they said immediately, voice flat with horror. “No fucking way. Absolutely not.”

V4mpii groaned loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear before dramatically falling backward onto your carpet. One arm covered their face while the other pointed accusingly toward the ceiling.

“I thought we were gonna game or spray paint something! Not sit here and get psychologically tortured.”

You only pushed the math book a little closer.

They stayed motionless for another few seconds before finally dragging themselves upward with the energy of someone walking toward their execution. Their skateboard rolled away slightly as they sat down heavily in the chair, elbows instantly dropping onto the desk.

“I fucking hate math... Like genuinely. Numbers are evil.”

You opened the workbook anyway.

V4mpii looked ready to die. At first, they barely listened. Their pencil spun between their fingers while their attention wandered literally everywhere except the page.

Sometimes they stared out the window. Sometimes they adjusted their glasses dramatically like they were preparing for battle. Sometimes they poked at random formulas like the symbols had insulted them personally.

The second you started explaining equations, they let out the longest yawn imaginable.

“Oh my god, I’m falling asleep already.”

You lightly smacked the side of their hoodie with a notebook. That earned a small laugh out of them.

“Okay, okay— Jeez!”

Still, even while complaining, they stayed seated. Which honestly said a lot, V4mpii wasn’t the type to stay still for long.

Usually they were always moving somehow—tapping their foot, rolling around on chairs, pacing while talking, tossing random objects in the air.

Even now their leg bounced beneath the desk nonstop, fingers drumming lightly against the wood while they stared at the problem in front of them like it was written in another language.

You pointed at one part of the equation again.

“This thing?” they asked, squinting. “Why’s there letters in math anyway? Wasn’t numbers enough?”

You wrote another example beside it. V4mpii leaned closer slightly.

Their expression twisted into concentration immediately—eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed faintly, pencil hovering uncertainly over the paper. The gruff attitude faded just a little whenever they genuinely tried focusing on something.

And honestly? It was kind of funny watching someone who acted so cool struggle against middle-level algebra.

“This still sucks,” they muttered while writing something down. “I hate whoever invented this.”

You pointed at the mistake they made. They froze. Their eyes widened behind their glasses. A sharp groan escaped them before they dropped their forehead directly onto the desk.

“You're gotta kidding me... I’m actually stupid.”

You immediately nudged their shoulder in protest. V4mpii lifted their head enough to glance at you before laughing quietly, rubbed the back of their neck. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Still embarrassing though.”

You slid another practice problem toward them.

“Another one?! You’re actually evil!”

Yet despite all the complaining, they still picked the pencil back up.

Minutes slowly passed like that. The room became oddly comfortable after a while—filled with the scratching sound of pencil against paper, occasional annoyed swearing from V4mpii whenever they got something wrong, and your calmer corrections guiding them back through the problems.

At one point they got frustrated enough to aggressively tug their hood lower over their face.

“This doesn’t make sense! Why’s my brain like this?”

You tapped the solved example gently. V4mpii stared at it for a while. Then back at their own work. And slowly... something clicked.

“Oh. WAIT.”

They grabbed the pencil properly this time before quickly solving the next step themselves. You watched them go through the equation with visible suspicion written all over their face, like they didn’t trust themselves to actually understand it.

When they finally reached the answer, they looked at you cautiously. You nodded. V4mpii immediately pointed at the page.

“NO FUCKING WAY.”

They laughed suddenly — loud, surprised, genuinely excited. “I did that?”

You gave them a thumbs up.

“That’s insane.”

The grin on their face appeared so naturally it almost looked younger than usual. Less guarded. Less sarcastic. For the next few problems, they actually tried. Sure, they still complained constantly.

Still swore under their breath whenever numbers got complicated. Still threatened to throw the workbook out the window at least twice.

But now they leaned closer during explanations instead of zoning out completely. They asked questions more often. Sometimes they even corrected themselves before you had to point anything out.

Eventually, after another successful answer, V4mpii leaned back in their chair with a look of complete disbelief.

“I hate the fact this kinda makes sense now...”

You slid the next page toward them anyway. They stared at you in betrayal. “You are never beating the nerd allegations.”

Another silent gesture from you. V4mpii snorted softly before shaking their head.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

They grabbed the pencil again. And this time, instead of immediately giving up, they actually started solving the equation before you even had to tell them to.

⠀ The Baron house was beautiful in the kind of way that never felt warm.

Everything inside it looked expensive—polished floors, spotless walls, framed photographs where every smile seemed rehearsed perfectly for the camera. Even the lights felt cold somehow, glowing too white against the marble counters and silent hallways.

But none of it ever felt like home to V4mpii. Especially not tonight.

From downstairs, muffled voices still echoed faintly through the house — their parents talking sharply, disappointment dripping from every sentence even when the words themselves couldn’t fully be heard anymore.

“Act like a man for once.”

“Your grades are embarrassing our family.”

“You’re wasting your future.”

“What even are you supposed to be anymore?”

V4mpii squeezed their eyes shut tightly, their hands trembled. They hated this. Hated this stupid house. Hated the pressure pressing against their chest every single day...

Hated the way their father looked at them lately, like they were some kind of mistake sitting at the dinner table. Hated how their mother kept trying to fix them by forcing them into clothes they didn’t want, conversations they didn’t want, expectations they could never fit into no matter how hard they tried.

And school wasn’t any better. Assignments piled endlessly on top of each other. Teachers kept pulling them aside to talk about grades slipping lower and lower. Extra classes. More lectures. More disappointment.

More people telling them they weren’t enough.

V4mpii yanked their hoodie off roughly before pacing across the room, fingers digging hard into their own hair. Their desk was cluttered with spray paint sketches, empty soda cans, loose homework sheets they never finished, and scattered markers with caps missing.

Everything felt messy, their thoughts especially. They glanced toward the mirror briefly. Bad idea. The reflection staring back at them only made their stomach twist harder.

The oversized black shirt. The messy white hair. The tired eyes hidden behind crooked glasses. The body they never fully felt comfortable inside.

And underneath all of that—

Failure.

A bitter laugh escaped them quietly.

“Cool,” they muttered to themselves hoarsely, a bitter laugh escaped them quietly “That’s fucking cool.”

Their eyes drifted downward toward their arms, the scars were still there.

Thin white lines crossing over older ones, some deeper than others. Faded in places, obvious in others. They’d tried covering them before—markers, bracelets, sleeves, excuses about skateboarding accidents or stray cats.

Most people stopped asking eventually. V4mpii swallowed hard. They hadn’t done it in a while. They really hadn’t.

There had been close calls before, sure. Nights where they sat on the bathroom floor gripping their sleeves so tightly their hands hurt. Nights where Blu3 or 2tar or Muff1n dragged them outside just to distract them. Nights where they forced themselves to sleep instead of thinking too much.

But tonight felt different. Tonight everything felt too loud inside their head. They crouched down near the side drawer beside their bed, opening it roughly. Immediately they froze.

The utility knife was still there.

Exactly where they’d hidden it months ago. For a long moment, they just stared at it.

Their breathing wouldn’t calm down. And somehow the pain felt easier to understand than everything else.

The blade trembled slightly in their grip. Then, a sharp inhale.

Another line. Then another. Not deep enough to kill. Never that. Just enough to make the noise in their head quiet for a second.

V4mpii squeezed their eyes shut immediately afterward, jaw clenched painfully while blood slowly welled across the fresh scratches. Their breathing sounded uneven now, almost shaky with regret the second it was over.

“This is stupid,” they whispered.

But they couldn’t stop. Because it felt like they were drowning in everything lately.

The constant pressure of pretending they were okay. Pretending the comments didn’t hurt. Pretending they didn’t feel sick every time someone tried forcing them back into a version of themselves that never fit. Pretending they weren’t tired.

Their breathing became shaky.

“Damn it...”

Their voice cracked, because this wasn’t helping. It wasn’t making the thoughts quieter anymore. It wasn’t fixing anything. If anything, it only made the guilt worse.

V4mpii suddenly dropped the knife onto the floor with a harsh clatter before covering their face with both hands. Their shoulders curled inward tightly as another broken breath escaped them.

They felt pathetic. Weak even. Like all the progress they’d made over the past months had shattered in less than one night.

Tears burned painfully behind their eyes before finally slipping down their face despite how hard they tried holding them back.

No teasing remarks. No cocky attitude. No sarcastic grin.

Just Sam.

Just someone exhausted from trying to survive inside a life that constantly felt too tight around them. Their hands shook as they wiped angrily at their face, but it barely helped. The room still felt suffocating. Their chest still hurt. Their arm still stung beneath the dim bedroom light.

And somehow the worst part wasn’t even the pain itself.

It was the realization that deep down, a part of them genuinely thought they deserved it. That maybe their parents were right. Maybe they really were broken somehow.

Eventually they grabbed markers afterward — scribbling messy colors across their skin the same way they always used to. Green. Black. Random shapes layered over the cuts like cheap camouflage.

But even then, faint red still stained between the ink. And somehow that made them feel worse. ⠀

---

⠀ By the time V4mpii showed up at your house the next day, they already looked mostly normal again. Mostly.

Their hood stayed pulled low over their messy white hair while their usual sleeveless green hoodie hung loosely off their frame. One hand shoved into their pocket, the other lazily carrying a soda can that had already gone warm hours ago.

They still talked the same. Still swore under their breath, still acted casually rebellious like always. But their eyes betrayed everything. Even beneath the shadow of the hood, they looked glossy. Exhausted. Red around the edges.

You noticed immediately. V4mpii noticed you noticing too. And that alone made them tense up.

“I’m fine, dude,” they muttered quickly before you even fully asked anything.

You stepped closer slightly and your gaze drifted toward their sleeves, V4mpii immediately pulled their arm back.

“It’s nothing.” they laughed weakly, “I literally just fell. That’s it—”

Their fingers started fidgeting against the fabric of their hoodie sleeve while their breathing became uneven. The tough attitude they always carried so naturally now looked unstable somehow, like cracked glass barely holding together.

“I said I’m fine.”

V4mpii’s lips pressed tightly together. Their jaw trembled once before they quickly looked down, hood falling lower over their face as if hiding would somehow save them from this conversation. For several long seconds, they said absolutely nothing. Then finally—

“...I did it again.”

Quiet. So painfully quiet.

Their voice barely sounded like theirs anymore. One shaking hand slowly tugged the sleeve upward just enough to reveal their arm.

Messy marker drawings covered parts of the skin—bright colors scribbled carelessly over fresh cuts and older scars alike, as if enough ink could hide everything underneath.

But it didn’t. Some of the newer scratches still carried faint dried blood between the lines of marker. V4mpii stared at them silently, their breathing hitched once, then they laughed softly—a horrible, broken little sound.

“I tried covering it up.”

Another silence, their fingers curled tighter around their sleeve. And when they finally spoke again, their voice had shrunk into something small and frightened beneath all the rebellion and sarcasm they usually hid behind.

“...I’m a burden, right?”

⠀

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