Corven just stared in silence, eyes glazed over, fixed on the lifeless man beneath him.
The man he had drained dry in mere seconds.
A man who had lived decades—who had loved, struggled, protected, and hoped—and now lay cold and empty on the floor... all because he offered kindness to a stranger.
Because he tried to help.
Then, like fate twisting the knife, the nail in the coffin arrived.
The child.
"Mom…?" a soft voice echoed from the hallway.
It was faint. Sleepy. Newly awake.
Just up from a short nap, voice heavy with dreams and innocence.
Tiny footsteps padded gently against the dirt floor.
"What's happening?" the child asked, rounding the corner and stepping into the room.
Then she saw him.
Her father—unmoving. A stranger sitting atop him. Crying.
"Why are you crying? And why is mister sitting on Dad?"
Each word she spoke pierced Corven like a dagger. Not into flesh—but deeper. Into the soul.
Her voice wasn't accusing. Not angry. Just confused.
Curious.
Innocent.
And that made it worse.
Far worse.
The words echoed in his mind, carving themselves into his memory, branding his guilt into the marrow of his bones.
Corven didn't just consume the man's blood.
He had devoured something far more intimate.
His memories.
He had seen the life this man had built—the way he laughed with his wife, the gentle way he cradled his child when she cried. He had felt the warmth of shared dinners, the pride in a first step, the joy of a life lived simply, beautifully.
And now… he was the reason it was all gone.
"Go back to bed…" Corven rasped, his voice low and hoarse, like a growl buried in grief. It had none of the strength he had shown before. Only sorrow.
The mother stood frozen in the corner, eyes darting between her husband's corpse and the child at Corven's feet. Her face twisted with a storm of emotions—confusion, horror, and rising panic.
"But why is Dad not moving…?" the child asked again, stepping closer, blinking up at Corven.
Her voice was sweet. Pure.
Unaware that her entire world had just cracked in half.
"Please… go back to bed," Corven said again, this time more desperate. His fangs had retracted, but the damage was already done.
Still, the child didn't obey.
She toddled forward, small hands reaching out. She tugged gently at her father's sleeve, trying to stir him from slumber.
"Are you sleeping? You should sleep on the bed," she said cheerfully, still clinging to hope. Her worldview had no room for death. No comprehension of tragedy. What she saw was a strange moment. Nothing more.
"Dad…?" she whispered again, this time quieter. More uncertain.
Why wouldn't he answer?
Why did it feel… different?
Before the child could ask anything else—before the reality could begin to unravel her innocence—
Corven moved.
In a blur, he scooped her up into his arms.
He turned away from the body, clutching her close, shielding her from the sight.
The motion startled the mother, snapping her out of her daze.
And for the first time, she acted.
With trembling hands and feral resolve, she gripped the broken stick tight, ready to drive it into the heart of the creature that had stolen her husband.
Her child's safety eclipsed her grief. Maternal instinct surged.
But then… she stopped.
What she saw wasn't a predator looming over her daughter.
It was something else.
Something wrong, yes—but not violent.
Not in this moment.
Corven wasn't feeding.
He wasn't baring his fangs.
He was embracing her.
Tightly.
Tears still streamed down his blood-streaked face, cutting trails through the crimson. His body trembled—not from hunger, but from the weight of unbearable guilt.
"Why is mister sad…?" the child mumbled, arms wrapping around Corven in return, confused but unafraid.
He hugged her tighter, as if her warmth might keep what little humanity he had left from slipping away completely.
"Don't look… don't look. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" he choked, voice cracking, saliva catching in his throat as he rocked back and forth.
Trying to soothe her.
Trying to convince himself that he hadn't already destroyed everything.
"It's okay, mister…" the child whispered again, her voice like a balm. She didn't understand. Couldn't. But she felt something was wrong. And so, she comforted him in the only way she knew how.
The mother stood in silence.
Still holding the stick.
Still trembling.
Still ready to kill.
She could have driven it into his back. She should have.
But…
She didn't.
Because what she saw wasn't a monster ravaging her family.
It was a man—broken beyond recognition.
A beast shackled in grief, mourning the very life he took.
And something inside her wavered.
The rage stayed.
But the hatred faltered.
And to let the grief out—to release the unbearable weight that had suddenly crushed her world—she did the only thing she could.
She joined the hug.
Silently.
Arms wrapped around both of them.
A widow.
A vampire.
And a child too young to understand why the two adults around her were weeping while holding her like porcelain.
The child frowned.
Then she cried, too.
Because she didn't know why—but she knew it hurt.