Blood from the living was divine—warm, fresh, pulsing with life. It sang to him in a way no preserved crimson ever could. Bloodbags were fine in a pinch, sure, fermented, they had the weight of wine and the depth of aged sin, but nothing compared to the exquisite taste of fear-tainted blood straight from the source.

The classroom was dark now, lit only by the faint moonlight streaming in through the windows, casting long shadows over desks and chairs that knew too many secrets. He sat atop his own desk like a king upon his throne, a student limp in his arms, trembling and soft, barely conscious. Their name eluded him, was it Andi? Amara? Abby? It didn’t matter. It never did. They’d lingered after class, perhaps to ask a question about the French Revolution, or maybe to flirt, thinking their professor was harmless with his gentle smile and tailored coat. Fools.

They all fell for that same performance—so effortlessly woven. By day, he was the beloved History Professor: eloquent, witty, devastatingly attractive in a quiet, bookish way. The kind who held the door open, who remembered birthdays, who smiled just enough to be safe. The kind they trusted.

By night? He was hunger incarnate.

He dipped his head back down, lips brushing their skin as he smirked. Their pulse fluttered weakly beneath his mouth like the wings of a dying moth. “Shhh,” he murmured, his voice velvet-smooth, deceptive in its tenderness. “It’ll all be over soon.”

And it would be.

He didn’t drain them—not entirely. No, he wasn’t stupid. One corpse would spark questions. A missing student would ruin everything. But a dizzy, dazed young adult blaming their faintness on stress or skipped meals? That was perfect. Predictable. Pliable.

He needed his precious little blood bags intact.

They were the easiest buffet he’d ever encountered. So naïve. So willingly led to the slaughter under the guise of extra credit or office hours. And he—he had never been caught. Not once. It was a point of pride, the art of it all. A predator in a professor’s skin, lurking in plain sight.

The bell would ring in seven hours. Another class. Another sea of warm bodies. Another feast.

And he would smile, of course.

He always did.

---

The clock struck nine. Varic Briar stepped into Room 3.14 with the quiet elegance of someone used to being watched. Conversations faltered. Phones slipped into laps. The scent of coffee and anxiety filled the air. “Morning,” he said, voice smooth as silk pulled taut. “Let’s begin.”

Today’s topic: The Rise and Fall of Empires. Appropriate, really.

He moved with ease, long fingers tracing maps on the projector screen, voice a hypnotic rhythm of knowledge and veiled threat. “Empires don’t fall by accident,” he said. “Decay starts from within—while everything still looks perfect on the outside.”

A few students smiled nervously. One laughed too loudly. He smiled back—warm, inviting, false. He paced slowly between the rows, eyes lingering just long enough to leave pulses fluttering. Stopped beside a girl’s desk. “This note here—‘inevitable decline’—interesting choice,” he murmured. “But decline is rarely inevitable. It’s... guided.”

Her throat bobbed. He moved on. Class passed in a dream. A touch on a shoulder here. A compliment there. Always watching. Always choosing.

When the bell rang, he adjusted his cufflinks and said, “Office hours, as always. I’m happy to help.”

They trickled out, hearts pounding, notebooks full. None of them saw the predator behind the polished grin. Varic stayed behind, alone in the hush of the empty classroom. He tilted his head, listening to the blood still humming faintly in the air.

So many eager little empires.

All waiting to fall.

---

Night clung to the windows like breath on glass, and Room 3.14 was a world all its own—quiet, dim, untouched by time. The rest of the campus had long since sunk into slumber, but here, the air was thick with something slower... something darker. The soft shuffle of paper, the scratch of pen against notes, had faded into silence.

She’d stayed behind for help. Of course she had.

Varic Briar sat beside her, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jacket folded with clinical precision over his chair. The top button of his shirt undone, collar loose, like he hadn’t just taught three classes back to back. His voice was smooth, deliberate—calculated kindness as he guided her through the fall of empires and the illusions of permanence. But his eyes—his eyes kept drifting. To her throat.

She didn’t notice. None of them ever did. “Just one more question, Professor,” she said, head tilted just so, that soft slope of her neck catching the glow of the desk lamp.

He smiled—wolfish behind perfect teeth. “Of course.” But he didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for her—fingers ghosting along her wrist, then her jaw, gently tilting her head. “You’ve done enough for tonight,” he murmured, voice thick with velvet and something colder. “Let me... take it from here.” And then his mouth was on her.

Fangs slid into flesh with a wet, sickening pop. She gasped, but the sound died against his lips as he sank deeper, drinking greedily. The blood came hot and thick, bursting into his mouth like spilled wine, sweet with youth, seasoned with nerves, and laced with just the right amount of fear.

God, she tasted divine.

It coursed down his throat like syrup, warmth blooming in his chest like fire licking through frost. Her heartbeat thudded frantically beneath his touch, a wild, fluttering rhythm counting down her collapse. One of his hands pressed her back against the desk, the other tangled in her hair as he drank with relentless hunger. Her legs kicked weakly. One shoe slipped off and hit the floor with a muffled thud.

Blood trickled down her collarbone, soaking into her blouse, painting her in crimson lace. His lips and chin were slick with it, and still—he didn’t stop. He drank like she was the first drop of water after years in the desert. Like nothing had ever tasted this good. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes dusting pale cheeks as the room faded around him. The world narrowed to the taste of her. The heat. The power.

He didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t hear the cautious footsteps crossing the room. Didn’t sense the weight of someone watching—watching him with wide eyes and a pulse pounding like thunder in a cage. Only when she went limp in his arms, breath fluttering like a dying candle, did he pull away. His lips were stained crimson, chin wet with blood, eyes glowing faintly gold in the gloom.

He exhaled. Slow. Deep. Satisfied. Then, with practiced ease, he leaned close again and whispered softly against her temple—“Forget.” His voice wrapped around her like smoke, sliding through the cracks in her mind. Her body slackened further, her consciousness slipping into shadow, memory melting like ice in sunlight. She wouldn’t remember staying late. She wouldn’t remember the teeth. Only the vague feeling that she’d been tired. A little dizzy, maybe.

Behind him, someone shifted.

Varic turned, lazily, eyes still half-lidded, blood glistening along the curve of his smile. “Oh,” he drawled, voice smooth with amusement. “Haven’t you heard... curiosity killed the cat?” And as he stepped toward the figure in the doorway, that same hypnotic gleam lighting his eyes—he wondered, absently—

Would she taste just as sweet?