Draven stepped toward the woman.
She was still breathing.
Shallow.
Uneven.
Each fragile inhale trembled through her chest as blood continued to seep from the torn flesh near her shoulder—the place where the ghoul had fed. The metallic scent lingered thickly in the air, mixing with the damp chill of the alley.
He crouched beside her, studying the wound with quiet intensity.
"I thought humans turned into ghouls when bitten," he murmured thoughtfully. "But you don't seem to be changing."
His gaze traced the veins beneath her pale skin.
There was no discoloration spreading outward.
No darkening of the vessels.
No rapid mutation twisting bone and sinew.
No violent convulsions.
Nothing.
"Does it take time?" he wondered softly.
Or was the transformation conditional?
His eyes sharpened slightly, crimson flickering faintly in their depths.
"Or perhaps… I could try to turn you into a vampire."
He went still.
Thinking.
For a vampire to create another of their kind, the process was not random. It was deliberate. Specific. It required direct infusion of vampiric blood into the victim's body.
Fresh.
Living.
The moment that blood left a vampire's body, it began losing its potency almost instantly. That was why they bit—not merely to feed, but to transfer.
Their fangs were not ordinary.
Within them were microscopic hollow channels—natural conduits designed to push blood directly into the victim during a bite. It was an instinctive mechanism, part of their biological design.
Simply cutting himself would not work.
The wound would heal instantly.
And exposed blood, once separated from his body, would become inert—stripped of the very property required to transform another.
Draven's gaze lowered as he analyzed the structure of his own nature. He could feel the truth of it within himself, but not the control.
He leaned closer to the woman.
"You should stay quiet," he said softly, though she was barely conscious enough to hear him.
He slipped an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her carefully to prevent further tearing of the wound near her shoulder. His movements were precise—almost gentle.
Then he lowered his head and bit into her neck, deliberately avoiding the existing injury.
His fangs sank through skin.
Through muscle.
He focused.
There it was—the mechanism.
The subtle internal shift.
The latent capacity to infuse.
But he did not understand how to command it.
He did not know how to direct the flow properly.
So he chose a crude solution.
Without withdrawing his fangs, he bit down sharply on his own tongue inside his mouth, drawing his own blood. The metallic taste flooded his senses.
He concentrated.
Attempted to push it through the bite wound.
To force it into her bloodstream.
He strained against something instinctual but untrained—trying to reverse a function that felt automatic yet inaccessible.
He waited.
Nothing.
No change in her pulse.
No violent reaction.
No resonance between them.
After several long seconds, he pulled back.
His tongue had already healed completely.
He wiped the faint trace of blood from his lips with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable.
"…It didn't transfer."
He studied her again, watching for any sign of transformation.
There was none.
Her breathing remained weak.
Human.
Unaltered.
Draven exhaled slowly.
"It seems I need to understand the mechanism more precisely."
Brute force would not suffice.
This was biological.
Instinctive.
Structured.
There were rules—ones he did not yet comprehend.
The night wind drifted faintly through the alley, stirring loose strands of her yellow hair across her face.
His eyes lifted briefly toward the dark sky.
"There is still much I don't understand."
Silence lingered between them.
Then his gaze lowered once more to the barely conscious woman.
"…Alright," he said quietly. "Let's finish this."
His tone was calm.
Clinical.
"To confirm my hypothesis about Elira, I need to drink blood closer to the source."
He studied her pulse again.
Weak.
But stable—for now.
"I can't repeat what happened with Elira," he muttered. "If you die, the experiment ends."
And if he gained nothing—
Then her death would be meaningless.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"But if it works…"
A brief pause.
"Then I'll let you live. Consider it a reward."
He reached down and gently—but firmly—gripped her yellow hair, lifting her upper body just enough to tilt her head forward. Her neck was exposed, the base of her skull visible beneath the strands.
He examined the area carefully.
"If I bite at the upper neck… near the base of the skull…"
Close enough to the brain.
Far enough to avoid immediate fatal damage.
Precise.
Controlled.
He adjusted his hold, ensuring her spine remained supported.
Then he leaned in.
His fangs parted the curtain of her hair.
Pressed against skin.
And pierced.
They sank deeper this time, breaching flesh near the upper cervical region where blood vessels ran closer to the brain.
The woman twitched faintly, her body too weak to produce more than a fragile tremor.
No scream came.
Only a shallow, strained breath.
Warm blood flowed into his mouth.
He drank.
Slowly.
Measured.
Carefully regulating the pull so as not to drain too much. Just enough to stimulate whatever phenomenon he sought.
His eyes closed—not in pleasure, but in concentration.
He was not focused on the taste.
He was searching.
Waiting.
For that same anomaly.
That sudden surge.
That invasive flood of foreign memory he had experienced before.
Seconds passed.
The alley remained silent.
A distant wind moved through the narrow passageway, whispering against stone.
Blood continued to flow in a controlled rhythm as he drank from the back of her head, his expression unreadable, almost detached.
He monitored her pulse.
Counted the beats.
Listened for change.
Watched for neurological tremors.
For resonance.
For intrusion.
For anything.
He waited—
For something to happen.