The afternoon sun was fading behind the buildings of Broken Falls, casting long shadows over the quiet streets. Mayson Winchester walked along the sidewalk with a paper bag in hand. A sandwich, a small bottle of water, nothing remarkable—exactly the kind of mundane human food he'd promised himself he could tolerate without drawing attention.
I'm a vampire. I don't really need this crap, he thought, biting into the sandwich anyway. Chewing slowly, deliberately, letting the taste register, he could feel the pull of the human blood lingering faintly in his mind. Not enough to unsettle him, not enough to make him lose control. Good. He liked it that way.
The streets were calm. People moved around him, laughing, talking, taking their time as if the world existed only for their schedules. He fit in perfectly. Nothing here knew the storms he carried in his veins, the weight of centuries, the taste of death on his tongue.
Keep your mouth shut. Walk slow. Blend.
He passed a park where a group of teenagers tossed a frisbee. One of them almost tripped over a dog leash and cursed quietly. Mayson adjusted his pace, let his eyes flick over them for a moment. Humans, fragile. Quick, but predictable. He moved on, letting the normalcy wash over him like a protective layer.
A bell from a nearby school echoed faintly in the distance. He glanced at it, noting the time, not because he cared, but because timing meant efficiency. He didn't want to linger, didn't want to give anyone a reason to notice him.
It's impressive how boring this is.
The coffee shop he had visited yesterday appeared around the corner. Lights glowed warmly through the windows. No one inside seemed to register him, and he made sure it stayed that way. A small nod at the barista, a few steps toward the counter, and he ordered a simple chocolate milk.
He didn't care for coffee, didn't even want it, but humans seemed to love it. He lifted the cup to his lips with precision, took a sip, and grimaced slightly.
Still terrible. Still passes for normal.
Mayson found a corner booth, sat down, and opened one of the novels he had brought along. The pages were heavy with myth, lore, and absurd human imagination about creatures who supposedly stalked the night. He allowed himself a small, private smile.
They're clueless.
Halfway through a paragraph, he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. A man leaning against a lamppost outside, faintly illuminated by the fading sun. Not human. Too still, too calculating.
Mayson didn't flinch. He didn't need to. The man's presence wasn't a threat—at least, not yet—but he recognized the signs immediately.
Another one of them. Good. Keep them close, let them think they see the pieces before the picture forms.
He stayed seated, turning a page slowly, as if the outside world were just part of the story he was reading. The stranger shifted slightly, and Mayson's eyes flicked up for a moment. Their gaze met. Not human, definitely not human.
I don't hide from these.
The man smirked faintly, then moved on, disappearing down the street. Mayson returned to his book.
Humans remain oblivious. That's how it should be.
By the time he left the shop, the streets were bathed in an amber glow from the setting sun. He moved with casual precision, hands in his pockets, eyes forward. Not running. Not showing. Just another teenager on a casual evening stroll.
A group of high schoolers ran past him, laughing loudly. One dropped a backpack. Mayson bent, picked it up, handed it back without a word. They nodded quickly, too focused on their own conversation to notice the subtle grace of his movements, the sharpness behind his calm exterior.
Let them think I'm normal. Let them never suspect the truth until it's too late.
By the time he arrived at his new home, shadows had deepened between the trees. The house looked the same from outside. Nothing remarkable. Nothing to betray the predator inside. He dropped the bag from the coffee shop onto the counter and moved to the stack of blood bags his parents had sent.
He pulled one out and held it up to the light. Deep red, rich, intoxicating. He didn't drink it immediately. He could, easily, but restraint was necessary. Control was the only thing keeping him tethered to humanity.
One sip now. Too early, and the taste ruins the illusion. Later. Later I'll enjoy it fully.
Instead, he settled into the couch with his sandwich still half-eaten, opening a thick book. He read, flipped pages, occasionally murmuring quietly at absurd lines in the text. Every now and then, he caught a reflection in the window and watched the dark street outside, calculating, observing, anticipating.
Even when he acted like a normal teen, Mayson knew his limits, his needs, his hunger. Humans could walk beside death and never recognize it. He could walk beside them, feed in secret, and they would never notice.
The sky darkened completely. Stars appeared overhead. Mayson finally took the blood bag from the lockbox, carefully unsealing it, letting the scent fill the room. A small smile curled his lips.
Perfect.
He drank lightly, enough to strengthen himself without losing control. The power surged in his veins, clean, precise, manageable. Not the Ripper frenzy of unrestrained hunger. Not yet. That would come later.
Patience. Always patience.
By the time he finished, the house was quiet again. He returned the bag to the lockbox, wiped his hands, and picked up the book once more. Laughter came quietly, muffled against the dark walls, but it carried a dangerous edge—the kind only a predator who knows his prey could muster.
The streets outside slept, unaware of the storm living quietly among them. Inside, Mayson smiled to himself, taking another sip of the blood and returning to the absurd tales humans told about creatures of the night.
I'll play their games. For now. But I never forget what I am.