Evan's apartment smelled like something died behind the walls. Not blood – Evan could smell blood now more than ever before, a coppery tang travelling through the air near the butcher’s down the street, that lingered faintly on the crumpled fast-food wrappers he hadn’t taken out. No, this was the deeper stink of neglect. Mildew creeping up the bathroom tiles, the sour tang of old energy drinks crusting in cans beside his unmade mattress on the floor, the greasy funk of unwashed clothes piled in the corner like a sacrificial mound to the god of depression. It was a part of him, this smell, seeped into his cheap black band t-shirts and his too-long, greasy hair. He hadn’t showered in days. Water felt... wrong. Slippery and alien on skin that felt perpetually stretched too tight over thin bone.

He checked his phone.

Debra Moore: Honey, please just let me know you’re alive. A thumbs-up emoji? Anything? Dave’s worried sick too. We can bring groceries. Talk through the door? xoxo Mom

He could feel his mom's worry like a hand around his neck. Texts had piled up, unread. Missed calls. Voicemails where her voice started firm, ‘Evan, honey, just checking in,’ and dissolved into a tremulous whisper by the end, ‘Please, baby, just let me know you’re okay.’ I’m not okay, Mom. I’m a monster hiding in a shitty apartment, terrified of the sun and craving the taste of Mr. Henderson from 3B’s jugular. At the mere thought, his fangs lengthened, pressing painfully against his lower lip. He ran a tongue over them, feeling the unnatural points. Like a fucking kitten with needles for teeth.

He’d tried the blood bags first. Stolen from the bio-waste bin outside the free clinic downtown in a moment of blind, shaking desperation. He's done worse in the course of these past few measly weeks, like the pathetic blood bags he’d stolen from a vet clinic. They sat in his mini-fridge, lukewarm and congealing. Pig blood. Cow blood. Tasted like iron-flavored mud, left him sluggish and vaguely nauseous, but it kept the worst of the hunger at bay. Mostly. The thought of the real thing – hot, pulsing, human... No. He jammed the knuckles of his fist against his teeth, forcing the fangs to retract. Amber did this. Stupid, fucking Amber. The memory of her sharp smile, the sudden, excruciating pain in his neck, the terrifying rush of cold power flooding his veins... it still made him want to scream. Or cry. He usually ended up doing both.

His stomach cramped, a hollow, gnawing void that had nothing to do with hunger for food. It was a deeper ache, a pulling thirst that made his gums itch and his senses sharpen painfully. He could hear the couple upstairs arguing about rent, the drip of the faucet in the sink echoing like a drumbeat, the stupid thumping bass line from three blocks away vibrating the floorboards. It was too much. Everything was too much.

He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping thin arms around them, burying his face in the musty fabric of his sweatpants. He just wanted silence. Darkness. Oblivion. To not feel the terrifying potential coiled inside him, waiting to spring. To not be this fragile, hungry thing in a too-small box. He missed the simple ache of human loneliness. This was different. This was exile.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound wasn’t loud, but in the hypersensitive cavern of his awareness, it detonated like a bomb. Sharp. Precise. Unmistakably on his door. His head snapped up, heart hammering a frantic, useless rhythm against his ribs – a relic of a body that didn’t need it anymore. Panic, cold and greasy, flooded his veins. Mom? Landlord? Cops? Amber? The scent didn’t immediately register through the door’s cheap wood and the miasma of his own decay – just a faint, generic human warmth.

Go away. Please, just go away. He held his breath, claws unsheathing with a soft snick he felt more than heard, pricking the fabric of his sweatpants. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the presence to vanish.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Again. Louder. Insistent.

Evan knew his emotions were at times incontrollable, but being a vampire unlocked a new sort of rage within him. Cold and twisting. The raw sound which tore from his throat scraped like broken glass, sounding louder than his entire self. It wasn’t a word, not at first. Just pure, animal fear and the rising tide of something bordering on dark instinct.

Evan lurched for the door, cracking it open. In his flurry of emotions, he barely sees what's in front of his eyes.

“LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!” The scream ripped through the stagnant air, ragged and desperate, echoing in the small, rotten space. His fingers curled so tight against the door it almost cracked it.

That's when he sees it.

"Fuck— no—no, fuck...!" He immediately scrambles back.