Bang.
I brace for darkness.
For nothing.
For the end.
---
It doesn't come.
---
The man standing over me jerks.
A small, clean hole appears in the center of his forehead. For a moment, he just…stands there. Frozen. Eyes wide, pistol still raised.
Then he drops.
He falls straight back like a felled tree, hitting the floor with a heavy, final thud.
I blink.
My ears ring.
Footsteps echo in the room—measured, unhurried.
Someone else is here.
---
"You look like someone dragged you through a slaughterhouse drain."
The voice is calm. Observing.
"Frankly, I'm surprised you're still alive."
I force my head up.
A man stands over me, partially silhouetted by the doorway behind him. I can't make out all the details—just the sharp lines of his posture, the stillness in the way he carries himself.
"You must be tougher than you look," he continues. "That makes you…useful."
Useful.
The word grates.
"Who…" My throat is dry, voice barely working. "Who are you?"
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he lifts a hand slightly.
Two men step in from behind him—dressed like him, moving with the same quiet discipline. They grab me under the arms and haul me to my feet.
Pain explodes through my shoulder.
I choke on it.
"Where are you taking me?" I manage.
Still no answer.
One of them presses a cloth over my mouth and nose.
It reeks.
I try to pull away—but my body won't listen. My strength is gone.
The world tilts.
Blurs.
---
This time—
It all goes black.
---
Hours later
---
I wake with a jolt.
Pain greets me first.
Then the ropes.
My arms are bound tight to a chair, thick cords digging into my wrists and chest. I strain against them instinctively, but they don't give—not even a little.
"Good," a voice says. "You're awake."
I look up.
The man from before stands across the room, watching me.
"I was beginning to wonder how long you'd sleep," he adds. "You were in quite poor condition."
I swallow, my throat dry.
"Who are you?" I ask. "Why am I tied up?"
He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I'm something on a table.
"You're here for one reason," he says. "Can you guess what it is?"
I stare at him.
"If I could," I say flatly, "I wouldn't be asking."
A faint smile touches his lips.
"Fair enough."
He steps closer.
"You interest me," he says. "One of my men saw you in that room. The way you moved…not human. Efficient. Brutal."
He stops just in front of me.
"But what truly caught my attention…" His eyes narrow slightly. "Was what you did afterward."
My stomach tightens.
"You drank his blood," he says plainly. "Like a starving animal."
Silence hangs between us.
"That leads me to a simple conclusion," he continues. "You are a vampire."
The word feels absurd.
And yet—
I hesitate.
"I don't know," I admit finally. "That was the second time it's happened."
His interest sharpens.
"Second?"
He leans in, placing his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping me in place. His gaze locks onto mine—intense, searching.
"Tell me about the first."
---
I close my eyes for a moment.
The memory comes back easily.
Too easily.
"The front," I say quietly. "During the retreat. An explosion threw me into a crater."
My fingers twitch against the ropes.
"There was another soldier. He was hit…torn apart." I swallow. "His blood got in my mouth. I swallowed some of it."
I hesitate.
"Then I felt it. Warmth. Strength. Everything slowed down."
I open my eyes again.
"That was the first time."
---
He straightens slowly, stepping back.
"Fascinating."
He turns away, pacing toward the window. His hands fold neatly behind his back.
"You're not the first," he says after a moment.
I frown.
"What do you mean?"
"The first time I witnessed something…beyond human," he continues, "was early in the war. The Battle of the Marne."
He pauses, as if replaying it in his mind.
"There was a man. We shot him—again and again. It didn't matter. The wounds closed faster than we could make them."
A beat.
"Then he reached our trench."
His voice lowers slightly.
"Claws extended from his hands. Not knives—claws. He tore through men like they were nothing."
I feel a chill crawl up my spine.
"We ran," he finishes simply. "There was no other choice."
Silence lingers.
"So," I say slowly, "you're saying there are others?"
"Very few," he replies. "But yes. You are not alone in your…condition."
He turns back to me.
"And yours," he adds, "is particularly interesting."
My jaw tightens.
"What do you plan to do with me?"
---
He doesn't hesitate.
"I intend to understand it," he says. "How it works. Why it works."
A faint smile returns.
"And how it can be replicated."
Cold dread settles in my chest.
"That will involve experimentation," he continues calmly. "It will be painful. Possibly fatal."
Possibly.
"However," he adds, "if you cooperate, your suffering will be…limited."
I stare at him.
"Do I have a choice?"
"No."
The answer comes instantly. No emotion. No hesitation.
Just fact.
---
He turns toward the door.
"I'll return soon," he says. "Rest while you can."
He reaches for the handle.
"Wait."
He pauses.
"Your name," I say. "If I'm going to be tortured, I'd at least like to know who's doing it."
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then—
"My name," he replies, without turning, "is Johann Schmidt."
The door opens.
Closes.
And I'm left alone.
Tied to a chair.
With that name echoing in my head.