The rain poured heavily over the ruins of the Blake mansion. The flames that once devoured the walls had long died out, leaving behind only the stench of smoke, charred wood, and coagulated blood.
Cold wind howled through the shattered columns, carrying with it the distant echo of screams that no longer existed.
Kimberly staggered through the main hall, her torn dress covered in ash.Every step left a red mark on the floor — her own blood mixed with mud. Her crimson eyes, trembling with fear, caught the flickering reflection of the moon through the broken ceiling.
A silver pendant dangled from her neck, smeared with soot. It was the only thing she had left.
Behind her, the house that was once her home was now nothing more than a burning grave.
She ran without looking back.
Ran through the forest, tripping over roots, fleeing from memories that burned hotter than fire.
The scent of her parents' blood still clung to her nostrils, and the sound of Alyra's voice — crying, screaming — echoed in her head.
"I love you, my little Strawberry."
She ran until her lungs felt like they were tearing apart. And when she finally stopped, she stood face-to-face with the real world — cold, merciless, and completely indifferent to the pain of a child.
Months later
The city of Salt Blake never slept.
In its alleys, the stench of rust and garbage filled the air. It was there that Kimberly survived — or something close to it.
The girl now wore dirty clothes, her hair crudely cut with rusty scissors, and her eyes always alert, like a cornered animal.
She stole what she could: stale bread, fallen fruit, forgotten scraps from trash bins.
Sometimes even coins from distracted drunks.
But hunger... hunger was different.
It hurt in a way that no food could ever soothe.
The first time she felt it, she thought it was normal. But soon, she realized the truth.
Her whole body trembled, her throat burned, her heart raced. The scent of blood — even faint and distant — drove her mad.
One night, she fell to her knees in a dark alley, her face pale and drenched in sweat.
Her breath came out ragged, almost animalistic.
"Not… not again…" she whispered, clutching the pendant tightly.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother's voice — soft, yet firm.
"You don't have to be what your blood says you are, my little one."
But blood always wins.
Kimberly opened her eyes.
A rat darted between the trash cans, and before she could think, she caught it.
Her fangs emerged — sharp, white, inevitable.
She hesitated.
Cried.
"I'm sorry…"
And then she bit down.
The metallic taste flooded her mouth — hot and alive.
The pain vanished.
Her body relaxed.
Her heart slowed.
When the rat dropped dead from her hands, she stared at her reflection in a puddle of dirty water — the reflection of her own fangs.
"Monster…" she muttered, spitting blood and tears.
She tried to stop.
She tried to fight it.
But as days passed, the instinct always came back.
Rats, pigeons, stray dogs. Sometimes, even butcher's blood — cold, lifeless.
Kimberly learned to survive.
But each night, the whisper inside her grew louder — a voice murmuring:
"This is what you are."
And every time she heard it, she clutched the pendant and whispered back, silently:
"No. I'm human."
But the moon — distant and indifferent — simply watched, a silent witness to a girl half-dead, half-alive, clinging to what remained of her soul in the shadows of Weschester.
As the night stretched on, Kimberly took her first steps — not as a hunter...
…but as a survivor.