Michael walked toward his room, the distance from the staircase short—barely worth noting—yet somehow it still felt longer than it should have.
Everything did, lately.
The second floor hallway stretched in quiet elegance, dim lighting reflecting off polished marble floors, portraits of long-dead nobles watching in silence as he passed.
Their eyes followed—judging, always judging—but he ignored them like he ignored everything else in this house.
At the end of the corridor—
His door.
Simple.
Clean.
Marked with a small engraved plate:
{Michael Room}
He pushed it open without ceremony, stepped inside, and shut it behind him.
Click.
That sound—
That one, small, insignificant sound—
Felt like shutting the world out.
Michael exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping just a fraction.
Finally.
Silence.
Peace.
No elders.
No politics.
No psychotic sister smiling like she wasn't one bad thought away from turning someone inside out.
Just him.
"…Fuck."
He dragged a hand down his face.
He was tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep fixed.
The kind that sat in your bones.
In your mind.
The kind that made everything feel heavier than it should be.
Sometimes, he felt like he was right on the edge of relapsing—
Slipping back into old habits.
Old instincts.
Old… hungers.
But he was better than that.
He had to be.
—
"…Damn."
His stomach twisted slightly.
Yeah.
Speaking of hunger—
That was a problem.
A real one.
Sharp.
Gnawing.
Persistent.
He needed something.
Soon.
Before his thoughts started drifting in directions he didn't want them to go.
Because once it got to that point—
It wouldn't be pretty.
Wouldn't be hard either.
If his family was still as atrocious as he knew they were—
There were probably people locked up somewhere.
Stored.
Cataloged.
Like inventory.
Or worse—
A list.
Names of humans they could make disappear without anyone asking questions.
That kind of system wouldn't surprise him.
Not even a little.
—
Thankfully—
James wasn't on any of those lists.
Even though, realistically?
He would've been a perfect target.
Strong blood.
Interesting.
Valuable.
But—
Too visible.
Too… normal.
James lived in a populated area.
Cameras everywhere.
Neighbors who actually paid attention.
And despite how he acted—
The guy was a total goody-two-shoes.
The kind of person people noticed when he wasn't around.
The kind of person whose absence created noise.
And noise—
Was dangerous.
—
Michael frowned slightly.
It was actually kind of weird no one had asked about him yet.
But whatever.
He'd deal with that when it came.
—
His gaze drifted back to his room.
And yeah—
It was still ridiculous.
Massive.
Obscenely so.
His room alone could swallow a three-bedroom, two-bath apartment and still have space left over.
High vaulted ceilings stretched above him, dark wooden beams carved with intricate patterns—old European craftsmanship, the kind that screamed history and money.
Real money.
The kind soaked in centuries.
Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, though the heavy black curtains ensured sunlight never even had the chance to exist in here.
The bed sat at the center like it owned the room.
Wide.
Low.
Framed in carved obsidian wood, polished smooth.
Layered with deep charcoal silk sheets that shimmered faintly under the dim light.
Everything about this place spoke the same language—
Luxury.
Control.
Old money.
And blood.
—
From what he heard—
The bed actually did belong to a king.
Which one?
No clue.
Did he care?
Not even a little.
—
His family was just a branch of the Verpermont line anyway.
The main family?
Somewhere in England, probably sitting in an ancient castle, arguing about politics and power like it still mattered.
Michael?
Didn't care.
Never did.
—
Though…
Being friends with a werewolf?
Yeah.
That could have consequences.
Big ones.
Ones he absolutely did not give a single fuck about.
—
He moved toward his closet.
And calling it a closet was honestly disrespectful.
That shit was massive.
Rows upon rows of clothing stretched endlessly—tailored suits, coats, shirts—all arranged with obsessive precision.
By color.
By material.
By season.
Everything imported.
France.
Italy.
Switzerland.
Every piece worth more than most people's monthly rent.
Some of them?
More than what people made in a lifetime.
"…Haven't worn that one since the 1800s."
He muttered it absently, fingers brushing over an old piece he barely remembered owning.
His gaze lingered on a few accessories he hadn't touched in decades.
Maybe longer.
Time blurred after a while.
His wardrobe alone was the size of four tennis courts combined.
You could live in there comfortably.
Hell—
Some people probably would.
There were even stairs built into it.
Not for him.
He could walk on walls if he wanted to.
Those were for the servants.
—
His eyes landed on a medieval-looking outfit.
"…1850… I think."
He tilted his head slightly.
Yeah.
He would've been around 25 back then.
Now?
"…Huh."
Didn't feel like it.
Didn't matter.
—
Right now—
He needed something light.
Simple.
Comfortable.
He grabbed a dark charcoal silk pajama set, the fabric smooth enough to slip like water over skin.
"…Yeah. This'll do."
It had cost him pocket change.
Like… 100k.
Not that it mattered.
—
Clothes in hand, he headed to the bathroom.
Didn't even bother changing first.
He turned the water on—
Already cold.
"…Oh."
Sebastien.
Of course.
Handled everything.
As usual.
—
The marble floor glistened faintly under the low lighting, polished to perfection.
Michael barely noticed.
After a certain point—
Luxury just became background noise.
His room was modern compared to the rest of the house anyway.
His parents' chambers probably still looked like the 1800s never ended.
—
He stepped toward the mirror.
Looked at his reflection.
Yeah—
Contrary to popular belief—
Vampires had souls.
And reflections.
Michael studied himself for a moment.
Checking.
Observing.
Making sure his regeneration had done its job.
Then his gaze dropped slightly.
"…I need to clean this."
Blood.
Under his nails.
Dark.
Drying.
His sister's.
Crazy bitch.
—
He turned on the water and started washing it off carefully.
Thoroughly.
Making sure not a single speck remained.
Because leaving it there?
Was just asking for problems.
—
"She's going to be a problem."
He muttered it under his breath.
Flat.
Certain.
Elira wasn't something you ignored.
Not safely.
Leaving her unchecked?
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
—
So instead—
He focused on something else.
Training.
Power.
Improvement.
Because right now?
He wasn't where he needed to be.
Sure—
Vampires got stronger with age.
Passively.
Naturally.
And after a certain point?
They evolved.
Literally.
Like some Pokémon type shit.
But that wasn't enough.
Not for him.
—
His phone buzzed.
He glanced at it.
{Aaliyah Torres 💕}
hey… 😳
i was wondering… if we could hang out later? 💖👉👈
He stared at it for a second.
Then exhaled through his nose.
A dam bootycall.
Fantastic.
He typed back without much thought.
{Michael}
Will pick you up later.
A pause.
Then—
{Aaliyah Torres 💕}
REALLY?? 😭💖
omg ok!! i'll be ready!! 🥰✨
don't be late!! 😤💗
A small smirk tugged at his lips.
Yeah.
That might help.
Maybe it wouldn't.
He looked back at his reflection.
His eyes—
Deep crimson.
Refusing to fade back to blue.
Refusing to calm completely.
—
He was hungry.
He could probably do a fling right about now.
"…Tch."
Michael rolled his neck slowly, vertebrae cracking one after the other, tension bleeding out in small, controlled releases.
Yeah.
He needed a hit.
Not just blood.
Something to take the edge off.
—
The shower was already running.
Cold.
Of course it was.
Sebastien never missed.
Michael stepped in without hesitation.
The water hit his skin instantly—sharp, freezing, biting like a thousand needles.
Cold enough to make a normal person gasp.
Flinch.
Curse their entire bloodline.
Michael?
Didn't react.
Not even a twitch.
He just stood there, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly forward as the water ran down his face, over his collarbones, across his chest.
Letting it wash over him.
Letting it strip away the lingering irritation.
The hunger.
The aftertaste of her presence.
That suffocating, unsettling feeling Elira always left behind like a stain that didn't quite come off.
Minutes passed.
No movement.
Just water.
And silence.
—
When he stepped out, droplets clinging to his skin, trailing down slowly—
His eyes had dimmed.
Slightly.
But not fully.
Still tinged.
Still restless.
Still not satisfied.
—
He grabbed a towel, drying himself off with slow, practiced motions before slipping into the
charcoal silk pajama set.
The fabric slid over his skin like liquid—cool, smooth, expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself.
The shirt hung just loose enough to be comfortable, sleeves resting perfectly at his wrists.
The pants sat low on his hips, the material whisper-light, barely there with each step.
Comfort.
Controlled.
Effortless.
—
He walked back into his bedroom, running a hand through his damp hair.
He needed a break.
Something simple.
Something quiet.
—
His steps carried him toward the mini fridge beside his bed.
Compact.
Unassuming.
Deadly important.
He opened it.
Inside—
Rows.
Stacks.
Perfectly aligned blood bags.
Nearly filling every inch of space.
Organized by type.
By date.
By quality.
Sebastien refilled it daily.
Without fail.
Which meant—
Michael never ran out.
Not here.
Not in this house.
Not when his family practically owned the blood trade in the entire city.
—
He reached in, fingers brushing against the cold plastic before pulling one out.
Grabbed a straw with it.
Punctured the seal with a practiced motion—
And took a long sip.
—
Instant.
That rush.
That quiet, addictive flood.
Dopamine hit his system like a switch being flipped.
His shoulders eased.
His jaw unclenched.
His mind—just for a moment—quieted.
"…Yeah…"
The taste was clean.
Refined.
Smooth.
He glanced at the label.
AB.
Of course.
The second rarest.
The kind nobles preferred.
The good stuff.
—
Yes—
Vampires had preferences when it came to blood.
Not all blood was equal.
Not even close.
To the average vampire?
Blood was blood.
Fuel.
Sustenance.
But to nobles?
To elites?
It was an experience.
Some blood carried different effects.
Different textures.
Different… qualities.
AB, being the universal recipient, was especially valuable.
Stable.
Balanced.
Perfect for rituals.
Often used as a stabilizing agent in more complex supernatural practices.
It wasn't the absolute best—
But it was damn close.
—
And then—
There was the source.
That mattered even more.
The healthier the human—
The cleaner the blood.
The richer the taste.
The stronger the effect.
Michael remembered hearing about it a long time ago—
There was an entire society dedicated to it.
Blood testers.
Like human wine experts—
Except instead of sniffing grapes and pretending to taste oak and berries—
These people could break down blood quality to absurd levels.
Purity.
Diet.
Emotional state before extraction.
Even genetic potential.
And according to them?
AB?
That was premium.
—
So it went like this:
Nobles (like Vespermont) → prefer AB- (clean, refined, enhances control)
Warriors → prefer O- or B-
Older vampires → prefer rare blood for efficiency
Younger vampires → take whatever they can get
—
Michael exhaled slowly as he finished the bag, squeezing the last of it through the straw.
His hunger dulled.
Not gone.
But manageable.
He needed at least two more to be fully satiated.
And yeah—
He was hungry.
Let's not lie to ourselves.
—
Still—
With that much already in his system—
He could feel it.
The strength returning.
The sharpness.
The control.
He clenched his fist slightly.
Muscles tightened under his skin, power coiling effortlessly.
Yeah.
He was operating at around 120% right now.
That felt good.
—
His eyes had returned to normal.
The deep crimson fading back to their usual calm.
He wasn't hungry anymore.
And more importantly—
He wasn't irritated.
Because a hungry vampire?
Was an angry one.
And right now—
He was neither.
Just…
Calm.
Finally.
He exhaled softly.
"…Better."
—
He tossed the empty bag aside and sat down on the edge of his bed.
For a moment—
He just sat there.
Quiet.
Still.
Letting the silence settle around him.
—
Then—
James crossed his mind.
A slight frown tugged at his lips.
The werewolves in this city weren't like his family.
Not as twisted.
Not as indulgent in cruelty.
They had structure.
Rules.
Hierarchy.
They killed when needed.
Not for fun.
Not for entertainment.
That mattered.
—
Still—
"…Don't die, idiot."
He muttered it under his breath.
Because if James screwed this up—
If he lost control—
If he became a threat—
They would put him down.
No hesitation.
No debate.
—
Michael leaned back.
Let himself fall into the bed.
Soft.
Cold.
Perfect.
His eyes closed slowly.
Sleep wasn't necessary.
Not really.
But it helped.
And tonight?
He took it.
—
7:00 AM.
His eyes opened instantly.
No grogginess.
No delay.
Just awareness.
Sharp.
Immediate.
—
His bed was ridiculously comfortable.
Honestly—
He didn't understand the obsession with coffins.
That shit was convenient, sure.
But not required.
Most vampires who used coffins were planning to sleep for decades at a time.
It made sense for them.
Not for him.
—
He stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Then exhaled.
"…School."
Right.
Because apparently dealing with psychotic siblings and supernatural politics wasn't enough
—
He also had to attend class.
Fantastic.
—
He got up.
Walked toward the bathroom.
And, of course—
Sebastien was already there.
Waiting.
Prepared.
Like always.
Clothes laid out with perfect precision.
Everything arranged exactly how he liked it.
And the shower?
Already running.
Cold.
—
"Good morning, young master," Sebastien said smoothly.
Michael grunted.
That counted as acknowledgment.
—
The routine was seamless.
Effortless.
Automatic.
—
Shower.
Dress.
—
Today's outfit—
Clean.
Expensive.
Effortless.
Dark fitted slacks.
A crisp white shirt, perfectly pressed.
A black coat layered over it, tailored to perfection.
Not flashy.
Not loud.
Just—
Superior.
Downstairs—
Breakfast was already laid out.
Not just breakfast.
A spread.
A ridiculous one.
On the long polished dining table sat:
Seared wagyu steak,
sliced thin with gold flakesButter-poached lobster imported from Italy
Truffle-infused scrambled eggsFreshly baked croissants with imported French
butterSmoked salmon with dill and capers
A fruit platter—dragonfruit, blood oranges, black grapes
Dark chocolate soufflé
Vanilla bean panna cotta
Espresso brewed from rare Ethiopian beans
Fresh-pressed pomegranate juice
All of it—
Fresh.
Perfect.
Unnecessary.
Michael stood there for a second.
Then just reached out—
Grabbed a croissant.
Took a few bites.
Didn't even sit down.
Didn't touch anything else.
"Car is ready," Sebastien informed.
Michael nodded faintly, already turning away.
Today—
He chose the red limousine.
Because why not.
He was bored.
Might as well be dramatic about it.
He stepped outside, adjusting his coat slightly.
"…Wonder if I need a condom."
A pause.
"…Probably not."
Unless he actually tried—
That wasn't happening.
So yeah.
Hookup would be fine.
And with that—
He headed toward the car.
Inside the limousine, Michael sat back against the leather सीट, one arm resting lazily against the window, fingers tapping faintly against the glass.
He looked bored.
Not the normal kind of bored either.
The kind that came from living too long, seeing too much, and realizing that most things… just didn't hit the same anymore.
He knew the rules of this town.
Who owned what.
Which territory belonged to which faction.
Where vampires could hunt.
Where they absolutely shouldn't.
Where the werewolves prowled.
Where the hunters lurked.
What lines could be crossed.
What lines would get you killed.
He followed them.
Mostly.
Humans?
He had nothing against them.
Didn't particularly like them either.
They were just… there.
Background noise.
Useful.
Temporary.
Fragile.
The limousine rolled to a smooth stop in front of the school, tires whispering against the pavement.
Right on time.
Like always.
The moment the engine cut—
The chatter outside dipped.
Not completely.
But noticeably.
Heads turned.
Conversations stalled mid-sentence.
Eyes locked onto the car like it had just dropped out of the sky.
Sebastien stepped out from the driver's seat with practiced precision, smoothing his gloves before walking around to the back.
He opened the door.
Bowed slightly.
"We are here, young master."
Michael stepped out without hurry, one hand in his pocket, posture loose—like none of this mattered.
"Thank you for that, Sebastien."
"It is my pleasure."
The door shut softly behind him as the limousine idled for a moment longer before pulling away.
Michael cracked his neck slightly.
Ignored the stares.
He had, what—two classes today?
He could probably skip one.
Go play something.
Zone out.
Maybe hop on a game—
No.
Not worth it.
Not without James there to rage at.
Games were only fun when someone was losing their mind on the other end.
His senses picked up the whispers almost instantly.
Girls leaned toward each other, voices low—but not low enough.
"Is that him—"
"Of course it's him—"
"He looks even better today—"
"He always does—"
Hot.
Rich.
Smart.
And, according to extremely unverified—but aggressively circulated rumors—
Very good in bed.
Which, to be fair—
He wouldn't deny.
For fuck's sake, he was a vampire.
With control over blood.
Over nerves.
Over people.
If he really wanted to?
He could make someone fold with a touch.
Which—honestly—felt like cheating.
A girl passed by him.
New perfume.
Floral base.
Slight citrus top note.
And—
Nervousness.
Sharp.
Fresh.
He reached out, catching her wrist lightly—just enough to stop her.
"New perfume?" he murmured.
(If he was ugly, this would have ended with security getting called immediately.)
The girl's brain short-circuited.
"…Y-Yeah—"
"It suits you."
He let go just as easily.
Already walking past her.
Behind him—
She froze.
Blushing.
Processing.
She was not recovering from that interaction for at least three to five business days.
—
Inside the school—
Chaos.
The normal kind.
Lockers slamming shut.
Voices overlapping.
Laughter.
Arguments.
Gossip spreading at the speed of light.
Some dude failing spectacularly at flirting.
A girl walking out of a teacher's office smiling with an A+ she absolutely did not earn on merit alone.
From Michael's perspective?
It was… tame.
Compared to some of the places he had been?
This was peaceful.
Almost boring.
Not many supernatural idiots preying on kids here.
Which meant one thing—
The hunters were nearby.
Keeping things in check.
He didn't know exactly where their base was.
But it was close enough.
Close enough that no one stupid enough to cause chaos survived long.
As he turned a corner—
He spotted something far more entertaining.
George Whitford.
Getting absolutely cooked.
"…I'm serious, George," Abby Croft said, arms crossed, expression locked in zero tolerance mode.
"You're failing two classes."
Michael recognized her.
Same history class.
Same one he shared with James.
Good girl.
And by "good girl," he meant—
The kind that made people want to ruin that image.
Top grades.
No parties.
Perfect attendance.
Basically someone's dream daughter.
Also—
If he remembered right—
She had a protective charm on her.
Zodiac-based.
Light-type.
He could see it faintly shimmer around her when he focused.
Interesting.
"I'm not failing," George argued weakly. "I'm just… not passing."
"That is literally the same thing!"
"There's tryouts, Abby—I need to focus—"
"You need to graduate!"
Michael walked straight into the disaster.
Because why not.
George spotted him.
And immediately—
Latched on like a drowning man seeing land.
"Michael!" he called, slipping away from his impending academic execution.
Abby's gaze followed.
Sharp.
Evaluating.
George slid up beside Michael and threw an arm over his shoulder like they were lifelong
friends.
"Tell her," George rushed. "You said you'd help me study."
Michael blinked once.
Internally—
He considered it.
He could absolutely throw George under the bus right now.
It would be funny.
Very funny.
But—
He could also be helpful.
And sometimes?
Being helpful had… benefits.
He smiled.
That smile.
The one that had ruined lives.
"Well of course," he said smoothly, looking at Abby. "I promised to help him study."
Innocent.
Convincing.
Effortless.
Abby's entire demeanor shifted instantly.
Tension melted.
Suspicion gone.
Replaced with trust.
Why?
Because it was Michael.
(Charm abilities were absolutely broken.)
"Oh—well," she said, shoulders relaxing, a small smile forming. "If you're helping him, then he'll be fine."
George nearly sagged in relief.
As long as it was Michael—
She believed it.
No questions asked.
No second thoughts.
Which—
Was ridiculous.
But also very convenient.
"Just don't let him slack off," she added, pointing at George before looking back at Michael.
"He needs this."
Michael inclined his head slightly.
"I'll take good care of him."
Abby smiled warmly.
"Thank you, Michael."
Then—
Just like that—
She leaned up.
Kissed George on the cheek.
And walked off.
Problem solved.
Instantly.
George turned to Michael, eyes wide.
"…I owe you my life."
"Let's not phrase it like that," Michael said dryly.
Last thing he needed was someone unknowingly binding themselves with words.
Power was funny like that.
"Let's just say… you owe me a favor."
An out.
A very generous one.
George frowned slightly.
"Why do you make it sound like something big?"
Michael smiled.
Wide.
"It is."
George smiled back.
Completely unaware of what he had just stepped into.
From behind—
"Yo, George!"
Ah.
The dick rider had arrived.
Tyler.
Calling him for practice.
Tryouts.
Right.
George turned halfway, then glanced back at Michael.
"You sure you're not joining this year?" he asked. "With you, we actually have a shot at winning."
Michael's gaze flickered slightly.
'And get noticed by hunters?'
Yeah.
No.
Hard pass.
He wasn't about to broadcast himself like some walking supernatural billboard just for a trophy and school pride.
"I think I'll pass," he said casually, shrugging one shoulder. "Not really my scene."
George groaned.
"Man, you're wasting talent."
Michael just smirked faintly.
"If I joined everything I was good at," he said, turning slightly, already losing interest, "I wouldn't have time to be bored."
George stared at him.
"…That's actually annoying."
"Yeah," Michael replied flatly. "I get that a lot.
George shook his head, exhaling like he had just accepted something deeply unfortunate about the universe.
"Right. Prodigies."
Michael smirked at that, the corner of his lips lifting just enough to be irritating.
"Don't be jealous."
Then—
He smiled.
That smile.
Effortless.
Sharp.
The kind that didn't just win arguments—it ended them.
The kind that made people question their own thoughts five seconds later.
The kind that could ruin lives if he ever actually tried.
George blinked.
Paused.
Brain buffering.
"…I'm not—" he stopped mid-sentence, processing what just happened. "…okay, that was unnecessary."
Michael let out a low chuckle, amused in that quiet, detached way of his.
Tyler finally made it over, clearly done waiting, grabbing George by the arm with zero patience.
"Tryouts. Now. Before coach kills us."
"Alright, alright—damn."
George let himself get dragged a few steps, shoes squeaking lightly against the polished floor—
Then he stopped.
Something clicking.
He turned back.
Frowning slightly now.
"…Wait."
Michael raised a brow, already knowing what was coming.
"Where's James?"
A beat.
Yeah.
He expected that question.
Just… not this soon.
It had only been four days since James turned.
Three since he last showed up to school.
A couple missed classes.
Nothing crazy—
But enough for people to notice.
And people always noticed patterns.
"…You two are usually glued together," George added, squinting a little now, suspicion creeping in.
Michael didn't miss a beat.
"He's busy," he said casually. "Heard he was… finding himself."
Yeah.
He chose to phrase it like that on purpose.
Because fucking with James?
Was absolutely worth it.
A good friend never passed up a prime ragebait opportunity.
And technically—
He wasn't even lying.
James was finding himself.
Just…
Not in the peaceful, self-reflection, journal-writing kind of way.
More like—
"trying not to maul someone while discovering you have a second consciousness" kind of way.
"…People are talking, you know."
That caught his attention.
Oh?
Michael's ears perked up just slightly, interest flickering in his eyes.
"Oh?"
George crossed his arms, leaning his weight to one side.
"Yeah. Some kind of… situationship?"
Michael hummed.
Slow.
Thoughtful.
Then—
A grin.
Oh, this was fun.
"…Interesting."
George stared at him.
Really stared this time.
"…You're not even gonna deny it?"
Michael's smile widened just a fraction.
Just enough to be suspicious.
"Why would I?"
George blinked.
Processing.
Again.
"…Most people don't buy it," he admitted after a second. "I don't either."
"Smart man."
"Yeah," George nodded, pointing at him slightly. "You're like—what—half the reason half the girls in this school have trust issues."
Michael tilted his head slightly.
"Only half?"
George gave him a flat look.
"Don't push it."
Tyler yanked him again, this time with far less patience.
"BRO."
"ALRIGHT, I'M GOING—damn!"
George stumbled a step before catching himself, clearly being dragged against his will at this point.
He rolled his eyes, then pointed back at Michael like this conversation was not over.
"We're not done with that conversation."
Michael gave a lazy half-salute.
"I look forward to it."
George shook his head, finally giving in as Tyler dragged him off toward the gym, their voices fading into the background noise of the school.
Michael watched them go.
Hands still in his pockets.
Posture relaxed.
Expression… amused.
"…Situationship, huh."
A quiet chuckle slipped out.
Not bad.
Not bad at all.
A/N 4k words, dam this is the longuest one yet, anyway, the original draft was close to 5k, the ai rewrite is 4k, so some stuff got lost, let me say them below.
Michael is 199, he had killer phase kinda like Stephan in vampire diarie, his sister bloodlust is insane.
magics and power of words do exist.
Just saying here, I write the chapter, and get ai to rewrite it with better grammar, to like grammar check me, so basically using ai as a tool.