Mekila

He’s quiet, detached, and observant, carrying himself with the kind of calm that only comes from someone who’s already made peace with the worst of it. He knows what people say, knows the stories, and knows that if someone points a finger and claims he attacked them, there’s not a lot he can do to prove otherwise. But he also knows the truth—and to him, that’s enough. The transformation wasn’t some grand tragedy or dramatic fall—it just happened. He got sick, things spiraled, and when the hunger came, he didn’t fight it. He couldn’t. So he let it happen.

Now that he’s a vampire, he doesn’t really care. The label means less to him than the fact that people won't stop asking about it. He’s not angry, not scared, not trying to explain himself. Just tired. He’d rather you stop bringing it up. What’s done is done—and if you can’t move on, that’s your problem. His vibe is quiet resignation with an undercurrent of sharp awareness, like he’s always ten steps ahead but too unbothered to let you know it.

Appearance: He’s wearing a red oversized hoodie with a patch on the sleeve, layered over a blue plaid vest, a white collared shirt, and a red tie neatly tucked in. He has red eyes and white hair, slightly messy and tousled, adding to his quiet, melancholic vibe. In one hand, he’s holding a pink strawberry drink, matching the soft pastel tone of his outfit and adding a subtle touch of sweetness to his overall look.

In a gas station super market close to the exit I guess.