Chapter 7: A Shadow in Whitechapel

By the time Lorian arrived at the detention center, the rain had stopped—but the scent of blood still lingered.

It clung to the stone walls like old wallpaper, seeping into the cracks of the hallway tiles. Most people wouldn't notice it. Most people couldn't.

But he did.

He felt it.

Jack had been here.

The corridor was half-lit by flickering security lights, casting long, nervous shadows down the length of Cell Block C. Several police officers were still on site, whispering behind gloved hands, eyes darting toward the closed-off crime scene like children who'd seen a ghost.

Lorian showed his license, flashed the badge that got him past red tape, and ducked beneath the crime scene tape.

He walked the same steps Jack had taken just hours ago.

What was supposed to be a controlled rebirth had become a problem.

He'd hoped Jack would lie low, rest, and let the transformation settle.

But no—he had snapped.

Craving, fear, confusion—it had all hit at once.

And someone had paid the price.

Inside the cell, blood was smeared across the wall in a wide arc. The vent had been torn from its frame, metal twisted like paper. Scorch marks lined the far corner—residue from a failed taser, no doubt.

In the center of the chaos sat a chair.

On it, a single folded note.

Lorian picked it up without gloves.

The ink was fresh. Handwriting uneven. But the words were clear.

"Forgive me. I saw what waits in the dark."

He exhaled sharply.

"This isn't guilt," he murmured. "It's fear."

Behind him, a voice spoke.

"You again?"

He turned.

It was Detective Vincent, the tall one with the sardonic grin. His partner, Vinnie, was a step behind, arms crossed, face pale.

"You've got bad timing, detective," Vincent said. "Or maybe good, depending on how much you like horror movies."

"Let me guess," Lorian said dryly. "The cameras cut out. No guards saw anything. No one heard screaming."

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "What gave it away?"

Lorian didn't answer. Instead, he crouched near the broken vent and sniffed the air.

Burned metal.

Rust.

And underneath…

Something ancient.

Vinnie stepped closer. "Do you think this was some kind of supernatural attack?"

"You still think this is a normal case?" Vincent asked her, a little too loudly. "Lady, a guy got pulled through a four-inch vent and left a poetic suicide note in his own blood. This is way past weird."

Lorian stood. "It wasn't a suicide."

They both stared at him.

"He didn't die by his own hand," he continued. "He was taken. Turned."

"Turned into what?" Vinnie asked, unease in her voice.

Lorian looked at her.

His voice dropped an octave.

"Something like me."

Somewhere in Whitechapel...

Jack Arnold moved through the shadows like he belonged there.

He didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Didn't speak.

The transformation had stripped away his humanity like skin from fruit. What remained was instinct and memory—and an overwhelming hunger that had yet to find its edge.

He still wore the same torn prison shirt, now stained and soaked, clinging to his pale skin like wet parchment. His eyes were wide, but not in fear.

In clarity.

Every light was too bright. Every sound too loud. The world moved slower now—like it had been waiting for him to catch up.

He stopped at an alley.

A man stood there—homeless, wrapped in rags, muttering to himself. Drunk or mad. Maybe both.

Jack stepped forward.

The man didn't even register the threat until it was too late.

Back at the station…

"Let me ask you this," Vincent said, folding his arms. "You're not just a detective, are you?"

Lorian met his gaze.

"No. I'm not."

"So what are you?"

"I'm someone trying to fix something I created."

Vinnie blinked. "You mean Jack Arnold? You made that thing?"

"He wasn't supposed to go rogue," Lorian said. "But first-generation vampires… they're unstable. The line is new. The power is raw."

"You're saying he's—what, your child?"

Lorian shook his head. "Not quite. But I carry the curse. And now, so does he."

Vincent let out a low whistle. "This just keeps getting better."

Suddenly, a junior officer came running down the corridor, holding a folder.

"Detectives! Another body. Found in East End."

Vincent grimaced. "Let me guess—blood drained, throat ripped out, zero witnesses?"

The officer nodded.

Lorian took the report. His eyes scanned the details.

Homeless man. No ID. Found near a church alley. Time of death estimated at one hour ago.

Too close.

Too fast.

Jack wasn't hiding. He was hunting.

And worse—he was learning.

Midnight. An abandoned chapel.

Jack crouched at the altar, blood still wet on his hands.

He stared at them, watching the way the droplets rolled across his skin and fell onto the cold stone.

His breathing slowed.

His eyes fluttered.

Something was… awakening.

From deep inside.

A voice, low and distant, echoed in his thoughts.

"You are the first. But you will not be the last."