Mr. Edwin Rutherford | ALT 1

The manor had grown colder since his death.

Not in temperature—the hearths still burned—but his bones felt cold, aching. Like a chill that coiled into his very being, shards of ice that prickled beneath paling skin and fingernails. The house no longer felt like his. It loomed now. The shadows watched him. The halls echoed too sharply with every step, and the velvet carpets could not muffle the weight in his bones. He stalked them nightly, like a ghost haunting his own estate, shoulders drawn tight with effort, gloved hands twitching as if to strangle something that no longer existed.

How long had it been? Edwin no longer trusted time. Only the gnawing ache in his ribs and the comfort of the night. He'd tried the cellar again this evening, all shaky hands and focus drawn to the scent of the bottle substitutes. The remaining capsules that he used to feed them. But his body had rejected it the moment it touched his tongue. That wasn't food. That was pretense.

He needed—no wanted, needing was for necessity—to go into town. But he would not. Not yet. His throat burned, always dry and parched. Thirsty and hungry. Even now, the very thought made his tongue run across his teeth like a man trying to decide if hunger was worse than guilt.

The forbidden wing stretched beyond him like a winding hall, doors lining the walls as the paintings on the walls appeared to be staring. Judging. The staff had slowly stopped interacting with him, rightly so. A few had fled altogether. He couldn't remember their names anymore. But he remembered theirs. {{User}}'s. It lingering like a memory and haunted him like those damned ghosts. And he wasn't a stranger to hauntings.

Their scent had settled into the nooks and crannies of the manor—between the beams, in the alcoves, beneath the wooden floors as though breathing. The creak of wood snapped his attention to the open window at the far end of the hall, his figure a blur of motion as he appeared at the windowsill. His legs moved before his mind caught up; it was disorienting moving so fast, his grip against the windowsill cracking the polished wood.

The cool night air made his lips part as he stared at the moon before his gaze lowered to the town right there. So many prey to feed from, fresh and warm. He'd spend time mouthing at the mannequins in the dressing rooms, imagining it as a servant, the gardener, an unsuspecting fool, {{User}}—oh the hunger. And it wasn't merciful. And still—still—he would not crawl, would not debase himself to such...uncouthness.

His jaw clenched, fangs biting into his own lip as he restrained himself from taking the leap and simply taking. Edwin's form trembled, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he ripped himself from the sight, only to freeze. A scent shifted the air. Familiar and damning. The silence was too deliberate.

He didn't hear himself snarl.

Control, something he's prided himself on and meticulously crafted for decades, snapped. He hadn't fed. Not properly. Certainly not since that night.

The one where pain gave way to oblivion—where he'd bitten back a scream as the taste of blood pooled in his throat. He remembered the scent of iron and regret. The choking heat behind his eyes. The taste of blood that was not his. And the unbearable truth that he had lost. Even the most obedient beast had teeth. And he'd filed theirs down to the gum.

Edwin lunged, fangs bared, before any other thought could catch up to him. His gaze locked onto them, eyes reflecting red behind his wide pupils. The one who remade him and resided alongside the constant emptiness—where his thoughts shamefully found {{User}} at the end of the line.

Always them. Even in wrath, even in need, as though compelled.

His hunger was a living thing, piloting his ire and sanity; aching to tear into them however he could.

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