When I woke, the first thing I did was take a long shower. Last night had been the final night of the full moon, and the state of my room told the story well enough—sheets tangled, furniture scuffed, things knocked out of place. I never remembered the nights themselves, but the aftermath was always there.
After cleaning up, I made breakfast—pancakes, simple and warm, with honey and butter. As I poured tea, I called the rookie, telling him to meet me at the bunker. Tonight would be his first hunt.
By the time I'd finished eating, he arrived—grinning like he'd already won something. Caleb Vance.
He was tall, lean, still carrying that careless strength of youth in his shoulders. His brown hair was messy, like he hadn't bothered with a comb, and his eyes were sharp but restless—never staying still, always flicking around the room. His clothes were casual, too casual for the job ahead: worn jeans, a faded jacket, and sneakers. He looked more like a college kid than a hunter.
That smug, toothy grin of his made me want to hit him, but instead I slid a plate toward him.
"Sit. Eat," I said.
"Pancakes?" he asked, raising a brow. "Didn't peg you for the domestic type."
"Fuel," I replied. "You'll need it."
While he dug in, I sat at my desk, working on a charm. My reflection in the steel carving knife caught my attention for a moment. Despite being forty-five, I didn't look it. My face still held the sharpness of youth, but the beard and mustache I kept trimmed along my jaw gave me an older, rougher look. People tended to read me as ten years older than I was, which suited me fine. Hunters weren't supposed to look young and soft.
I asked Caleb his name, and when he told me, I carved it carefully into the small wooden pendant.
"Caleb Vance," he'd said, flashing that grin again.
With a drop of blood and a quiet chant to the old patrons of the moon, harvest, and hunt, the charm was sealed.
He stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Uh… is that real blood?"
"Yes," I said without looking up.
His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "…You didn't kill anyone for that, did you?"
I finally glanced at him, deadpan. "Relax. It's mine."
"Yours?" His eyes widened. "Wait—are you saying you—"
"Still a virgin, yes," I cut him off flatly. "Stop staring like I just confessed to a crime. The ritual needs virgin blood, and I use my own. Keeps things simple."
He blinked, then let out a short, nervous laugh. "…You're one hell of a mentor, you know that?"
Ignoring him, I finished the charm and handed it over. "Wear it, Caleb. It'll enhance your strength and speed. Not enough to match a vampire, but enough to keep you alive."
Skepticism was written all over his face. "Seriously? This isn't just… decoration?"
"Try it."
He slipped the charm over his neck. A moment later, his eyes widened. He stood abruptly, pacing the room, then dashed across it in a blur. "Holy shit—I'm fast!"
"Don't get cocky," I warned.
Caleb ignored me, running outside into the yard. I followed, watching as he leapt nearly two meters in the air and landed with an exhilarated laugh. Then, grinning like a fool, he turned to a nearby tree and punched the trunk with all his strength. The wood shook under the blow.
"You see that?" he shouted, practically glowing with excitement. "This is insane! I feel like—like a superhero!"
I crossed my arms, unimpressed. "Or like a child who just got his first toy."
His grin widened even more. "Best toy ever."
I sighed. The kid had spirit, I'd give him that. But spirit alone didn't keep you alive in this line of work. Tools, discipline, and caution did.
Back inside, I laid out the rest of the equipment for tonight's hunt.
The revolver—modern, heavy, six chambers. Its wooden grip was etched with the same crescent runes I'd carved into Caleb's charm. Every bullet I loaded into it would carry those marks.
Steel combat knives, their blades engraved with runes. The etchings weren't pretty—just rough, angular strokes passed down to me years ago. I never bothered learning their true meaning. Didn't need to. I only needed to know that when a rune-bitten edge struck a vampire's flesh, it cut deeper than steel ever could.
And the crossbow. Sleek, collapsible, its limbs engraved with faint runes that looked like scratches until the light caught them. Silver-tipped bolts rested in a lined case beside it, polished and ready.
Caleb stepped back inside, still flushed with adrenaline. His smile faded when he saw the weapons laid out across the table.
"…That's a lot of firepower."
"Every piece serves a purpose," I said. "The revolver for speed. The blades for close work. The crossbow when you don't want to get close at all."
He leaned closer, squinting at the runes. "What's this? Some kind of language?"
"Maybe," I said, loading the revolver with calm precision. "Never learned it."
His eyes shot to me. "Wait—you don't even know what they mean?"
"I know what they do. That's enough."
Caleb picked up one of the knives, running a thumb along the etched symbols. "And what do they do, exactly?"
"They kill."
That shut him up. He set the blade down a little too quickly, as though it might bite him.
I holstered the revolver, slid the knives into their sheaths, and strapped the crossbow across my back. Each motion was practiced, ritualized, like breathing. This wasn't superstition—it was survival.
Finally, I tossed Caleb a spare knife. "Keep it on you at all times. Don't drop it. Don't hesitate."
He caught it clumsily, staring at the runes again. "Feels… heavier than it looks."
"It should," I said. "That's the point."
Caleb chuckled nervously, still staring at the knife. "Man, this is a lot to take in. I thought we'd just roll in, shoot the thing, and walk out."
"Then you thought wrong," I told him. "Out there, one mistake means you don't walk out at all."