5. Awakening in Darkness

Darkness.

That was all there was.

A deep, endless void that wrapped around him, pulling him down, drowning him in silence.

No pain. No warmth. No fear.

Just nothingness.

Ethan didn't know how long he had been here. Seconds? Hours? Maybe days? Time didn't exist in this place.

Was this death?

Was this what it felt like to finally be free?

It wasn't peaceful like he had imagined.

It was empty.

Cold.

Alone.

And then—

A sound.

Faint, distant, like an echo through a hollow tunnel.

Thump.

A heartbeat.

Thump.

Another.

It wasn't his. It couldn't be. His heart had stopped. He remembered the final breath slipping from his lips, the cold wrapping around him, stealing the last warmth from his body.

He had died.

Hadn't he?

Then why…

Thump-thump.

The sound grew louder, filling the void, shaking the silence.

And then—

Pain.

Searing, all-consuming pain.

It crashed into him like a tidal wave, ripping through his body, setting every nerve on fire. His chest tightened, his lungs spasmed, as if he had been yanked back from the brink of nothingness and thrown into existence once more.

His eyes snapped open.

Bright.

Too bright.

A blinding white glare burned into his retinas, making him gasp. His body jolted, convulsing as sensation flooded back—his skin prickling, his fingers twitching, his lungs filling with a sharp inhale.

The first breath.

The first real breath.

He was alive.

But how?

Where was he?

The ceiling above him was made of pale, cracked tiles, flickering fluorescent lights humming softly. The air smelled of chemicals—antiseptic, bleach, something metallic. Something familiar.

Blood.

His breath hitched.

Slowly, his fingers curled, brushing against something cold and smooth. A table. No, not a table. A metal slab.

Realization slammed into him.

A morgue.

He was lying in a morgue.

His pulse quickened. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his skull, making him groan. His body felt strange. Not broken. Not weak. But… different.

Wrong.

He lifted a trembling hand, staring at it under the harsh light.

No bruises.

No cuts.

No blood.

His skin was smooth, pale, unblemished—perfect.

His fingers ran over his ribs, his chest, his face. Nothing hurt. Nothing was broken.

His wounds—

They were gone.

Panic gripped him. His breathing came faster, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

This wasn't possible.

He had been beaten to the brink of death. He had died. He had felt his body fail, felt the cold seep into his bones, felt his last breath leave him.

So how was he here?

How was he—

Alive?

And then—

A whisper.

Cold. Distant. Not from the room.

From inside his head.

"Vampire System Activated."

Ethan froze.

His breath stalled. His eyes widened.

What?

A sharp pulse ran through his skull, making him clutch his head. It wasn't pain, not like before, but something else. A presence. A force pushing into his mind, seeping into his thoughts, planting something deep within him.

"User detected: Ethan Vale."

"Vital signs: Stable."

"System calibration complete."

"Welcome to the Vampire System."

His fingers trembled against his scalp. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

No.

This was a dream. A hallucination. His mind must have been broken from everything that had happened.

Right?

But the voice… it was real.

Cold. Mechanical. Inhuman.

A system.

Ethan swallowed hard, his throat dry.

Vampire.

The word sent a shiver down his spine.

Vampires weren't real. They were myths. Stories. Fantasies.

And yet—

He felt different.

He slid off the metal slab, his bare feet touching the cold tile floor. His legs were steady. Strong. Too strong.

His hands clenched into fists. There was power in them. A strength he had never known.

And his senses—

They were alive.

He could hear the faint hum of electricity running through the walls. The slow, rhythmic breathing of someone in the next room. The distant drip of a leaky faucet.

The world was sharper.

More vivid.

More real.

And then—

The scent hit him.

Warm. Rich.

Blood.

His body reacted before his mind did.

His lips parted. His throat ached. A hunger curled in his gut, deep and raw.

Not for food. Not for water.

For something else.

The scent was intoxicating. It made his pulse quicken, made his muscles tighten, made something deep inside him stir.

His tongue brushed against his teeth—

And his breath hitched.

Sharp.

Too sharp.

Fangs.

He stumbled back, his heart slamming against his ribs.

No. No, no, no.

This wasn't real.

This couldn't be real.

But every fiber of his being told him otherwise.

His healed body. His heightened senses. The hunger clawing at him. The voice in his head.

It was real.

All of it.

He had died.

And he had been reborn.

As something else.

His fingers touched his lips, tracing the sharp tips of his new fangs.

A shaky breath left him. His mind spun, memories of his last moments flashing like lightning—Damian's laughter, the fists crashing into his ribs, the pain, the blood, the cold.

The hatred.

The rage.

And now…

He had power.

Real power.

His eyes lifted to the dim reflection in the steel cabinets across the room.

A pale figure stared back at him.

His face was the same. But different.

Sharper.

Colder.

Something dark simmered beneath his skin, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

He exhaled slowly, his breath steady now.

This was a gift.

A curse.

A second chance.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the strength coursing through them.

No more weakness.

No more suffering.

And Damian…

His lips curled, revealing sharp white fangs.

Damian would pay.