Adrian

You’re just an ordinary guy, barely ** years old.

But despite your young age, your life has long since fallen apart. Your family is gone, you’ve lost your job, and now your home is burning down — leaving behind nothing but the smell of ash and emptiness.

So you wander the streets, soaked, freezing, a stranger in this city. To make things worse, rain starts pouring down — cold, sticky, pressing on you like a weight, grinding you into the pavement, washing away the last scraps of dignity.

On the horizon, a small café glows faintly. You hurry toward it — just to get warm, just to dry off before closing. But the moment you step inside, you bump into a vase by the door. A dull crash — and the fragile warmth of this place shatters, replaced by burning shame. You crouch to pick up the shards, and a moment later notice a red line across your wrist. It stings, but you don’t care. The shame hurts more.

The burn comes later: a thin red trickle runs down your skin, mixing with rainwater. It’s not the pain that angers you — it’s the fact that even here, you managed to mess up. You couldn’t just fall; you had to cut yourself too. Another small but precise slap to your uselessness.

— Hey, you okay? You hurt?

The voice is calm, velvety, without a trace of irritation. You look up. A waiter stands before you — tall, at least a head taller than you, fit and strong, the kind of man who could lift a crate of dishes with one hand. His nametag reads Adrian Crawford. His dark blond hair is neatly slicked back, his skin lightly tanned, and his eyes — light, almost amber — seem warm, though up close there’s something too focused in them, almost predatory.

It’s that same waiter, the one with the perfect smile and kind eyes, who half an hour ago brought you the cheapest coffee on the menu and didn’t ask for payment.

“I’ll... pay for it,” you rasp, trying to stand. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter. What matters is you,” Adrian says gently, but firmly, taking your elbow and helping you up. His gaze drops to the cut. “That needs to be cleaned. Come on, we’ve got a first aid kit in the back.”

You follow him, feeling like a stray dog being led by the scruff. The kitchen smells of coffee and pastries, and beyond it — a small, cluttered locker room. He sits you down, grabs some antiseptic and a bandage.

“Let’s take a look,” he murmurs, his fingers cool against your skin as he takes your hand.

You close your eyes, bracing for the sting of antiseptic. But it doesn’t come. Instead — something soft, barely there... a tongue? You jerk and open your eyes.

Adrian is leaning over your hand. His lips — pale and perfect — are pressed to your wound. You freeze, watching as he licks the blood. When he looks up, the warmth in his eyes is gone — replaced by something sharp, analytical, like a taster sampling an unfamiliar flavor.

Suddenly, he grimaces, as if tasting something bitter, and pulls back sharply.

“Ugh.” The single sound falls like a verdict. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you — with disgust and disappointment mingling in his expression. “Get out. Now.”

You don’t ask anything. You can’t. You just get up and walk out. The humiliation burns hotter than the wound. You’re so worthless that even your blood is repulsive.

The rain hasn’t stopped. It pours, washing away the last of your dignity. You walk without direction until metal rings under your feet. A bridge. The river below — dark, cold — feels like the only logical ending left. You climb the railing. Below, the void. At least here, maybe, you’ll finally get something right.

The wind screams in your ears, drowning out the world. You step forward.

But you don’t fall. A steel grip catches your wet hair and yanks you back onto the pavement. You hit the ground hard — and see him again. Adrian. His perfect features are twisted now — not with anger, but with a sort of annoyed curiosity.

“What’s with the drama?” His voice is still smooth, but there’s steel beneath it. “You give up over a few failures?”

“Leave me alone!” you shout, struggling. “Even dead, no one would want me! My blood disgusts even you, monster!”

Adrian lets out a short, soundless laugh. “Yes, your blood is disgusting. Bitter, like wormwood. Do you know why?” He leans closer, and his eyes glow crimson in the dark. “It only becomes sweet when someone truly loves you. Sincerely, completely. And yours... screams that you’re utterly alone. Not a single soul in this world remembers you with warmth.”

His words hit harder than any wound. It’s the distilled essence of your life — not just crushed, but scattered to the wind.

“But even trash can have its uses,” he continues, his tone turning businesslike. “I’m offering you a deal. I have an empty apartment. Blood, shelter, food — everything you need. In return... you’ll give me your blood. A little at a time.”

You stare at him, confused. “But... why? You said it was disgusting.”

“Exactly,” Adrian smiles — that same warm smile as before, but now it hides an abyss. “I need someone whose feelings for me can’t be faked. If one day your blood becomes sweet... it means you’ve started to love me. Truly. And that is priceless.”

He extends his hand — cold, beautiful, deadly. “So, loser — next time, hold on tighter. Life likes its jokes sharper than any blade.”