My little human

Alaric's POV

No one has ever shown me genuine kindness. I've never been on the receiving end of it, not even once in my long, cursed existence. I learned, long ago, that the world is cruel, that mercy is a fleeting illusion meant for others, never for me. I stopped expecting it. I stopped hoping. Instead, I embraced the darkness, let it consume me, let it shape me into something neither fully alive nor entirely dead. I became a shadow, a whisper, a forgotten nightmare lingering at the edges of reality.

But that day—when I was shot and left for dead—everything changed. A mere human, fragile and ignorant of what I truly am, showed me mercy. He didn't hesitate, didn't turn away in disgust or fear. He saved me. Me, of all creatures. I still don't understand why. Perhaps he simply saw a dying soul and acted on impulse. Perhaps his heart is too kind, too open, too foolish. Whatever the reason, it does not matter. What matters is that, in that moment, he altered the course of my existence.

And because of that, I have made it my life's duty to protect him, to ensure that he is always safe, always cared for, even if he never knows I exist.

I watch over him, always in the shadows, always close. He doesn't realize it, but I'm there. I was there the other night when his colleagues brought him home, drunk and vulnerable. He had laughed too much, talked too loudly, his eyes glossy with intoxication. He trusts too easily, oblivious to the dangers that lurk in the hearts of men. And when that despicable doctor—the one who feigns kindness but hides darkness in his heart—attempted to take advantage of him, I stopped him. The doctor won't try again. He's learned his lesson. And if he hasn't, well… I have ways of ensuring he never forgets.

My human will never know the danger he was in that night, nor how close he came to being violated. And that's fine. My purpose is not to be thanked. My purpose is to protect.

This morning, I prepared his breakfast. I left it on the counter before vanishing into my usual hiding place, waiting to see if he would finally accept this small gesture. A meal, simple yet nourishing. Warm food, meant to ease his exhaustion, to remind him that he is not alone—even if he doesn't know it yet. But my little human threw it away.

It stung, more than I care to admit. But I understood. He doesn't know me yet. Doesn't realize that the meal this morning wasn't some trick of his exhausted mind. That someone is looking out for him. That someone cares.

But that won't stop me. Tomorrow, I will do it again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Because ensuring his well-being is now my duty, my purpose.

He saved me once. Now, I will save him, over and over again, until the day I am no longer needed. And if that day never comes… then so be it.

--I find myself at the hospital today, the place I despise most. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and blood, a cloying mixture that clings to every surface, seeping into my senses. The underlying hum of human suffering presses in from every corner—the beeping monitors, the muffled sobs, the hurried footsteps of overworked nurses. It makes my fangs ache, makes the hunger coil within me like a living thing, whispering insidious temptations into my ear. The blood bank is just down the hall, locked away behind steel doors, but I could get in if I wanted to. Just a taste. Just enough to quiet the gnawing void inside me.

But I push the urge down. I didn't come here for that.

I am here for him.

To remain unseen, I keep my head low, the brim of my cap casting a shadow over my eyes. A mask covers the lower half of my face, hiding the telltale sharpness of my features. A simple disguise, but effective—humans rarely look past the obvious. They see what they expect to see.

Then I hear it.

"Nurse Enzo."

His name.

The syllables pull at something deep inside me, a tether that has remained taut despite my best efforts to sever it. And like a moth drawn to flame, my little human comes running.

He appears around the corner, his uniform hanging too loosely on his small frame. It swallows him up, making him look even more delicate than he already is. His hands fumble as he adjusts the ID badge pinned to his chest, a nervous little habit I've seen before. But then, something unexpected happens. As he moves, his gaze flickers my way. Just for a second.

His brow furrows.

A tiny crease appears between his eyebrows, his lips part slightly. He hesitates, as if something about me feels… familiar. As if, despite the shadows concealing me, some part of him recognizes what the rest of him cannot.

The world slows.

A single step. He moves toward me.

My grip tightens on the edge of my seat, my knuckles whitening. Will he recognize me? Would he know me even like this, after all this time?

But before he can come closer, the same voice from earlier calls his name again.

His attention snaps away.

And then I see him.

The doctor.

That stupid-faced doctor.

The one always hovering around him, always looking at him in a way that makes something ugly rise inside me. I watch as Enzo turns toward him, his brief moment of curiosity about me forgotten.

And I feel it.

A sharp, seething annoyance curling low in my gut.

I hate hospitals. But I think I hate that stupid face doctor even more.

The one who almost destroyed my little human's innocence that night. The one who prowls these halls with a smug expression, concealing his depravity beneath a charming smile. The one whose every word drips with deceit, whose every gesture is calculated to disarm. And worst of all—Enzo doesn't even realize what almost happened to him.

He stands there, shifting on his feet, vulnerable in a way that makes my blood burn. He doesn't understand the danger lurking so close, doesn't see the predator who watches him with veiled hunger. But I do.

"Have you had lunch yet?" the doctor asks, his voice coated in false concern, in the kind of sweetness that rots from the inside.

Enzo hesitates, glancing down like a child caught in some imagined wrongdoing. "Uhm, well, no… I…" He stutters, uncertain, and I hate that this man makes him so uneasy.

Why? What does he see in him? What instinct warns him, even if he doesn't fully comprehend it?

"I'll take that as a no," the doctor says smoothly, too smoothly, placing a hand on Enzo's back. The touch is light, casual—too casual—but I don't miss the way his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. "Come on, let's go to my office."

Enzo follows, hesitant yet compliant, and I watch with barely restrained fury as the man guides him away. My fingers tighten into fists, nails biting into my palms, but I barely feel the pain.

Rage coils within me, a beast with bared fangs, a storm gathering on the horizon.

That man does not deserve to touch him. To speak to him. To even look at him.

I force myself to inhale, to steady the fury threatening to consume me. But it is a temporary restraint, a momentary pause in the inevitable.

Because one way or another, I will protect my little human.

And if that means becoming a monster to stop one—so be it.