The target was a mid-level arms dealer named Gordy "The Gristle." He wasn't a Highborn, just a mutated human with skin like rhinoceros hide and a nasty habit of selling defective explosives to the Resistance.
His bounty was 5,000 credits.
Elara finished the job in exactly four minutes and twelve seconds.
She didn't bother sneaking in. She kicked the warehouse door open, dual-wielding her heavy pistols.
Bang. Bang. Two guards dropped with holes in their foreheads before they could raise their rifles.
Gordy roared, flipping a table. He charged at her, his thick skin deflecting small-caliber fire. He was seven feet of muscle and bad attitude.
Elara didn't retreat. She holstered one pistol and drew her mono-wire whip.
She slid under his charging swing, the concrete floor scraping her armor. As she passed beneath him, she snapped the whip upward.
Slash.
The wire sliced through the back of his knees—the only soft spot on his body.
Gordy crashed to the ground, screaming.
"Defective merchandise," Elara stated coldly, standing over him.
She placed the barrel of her modified heavy cannon—loaded with armor-piercing rounds—directly against his temple.
"Wait!" Gordy pleaded, blood pooling around his severed tendons. "I can pay you double! I have—"
BOOM.
Elara didn't listen to begging. It was inefficient. She pulled the trigger, and Gordy's head evaporated in a mist of red and grey.
She took a photo of the corpse, holstered her weapon, and walked out into the sunlight, wiping a speck of blood from her cheek.
"Too easy," she muttered. "Boring."
WHEEEE-WOOOO.
A loud, sharp wolf whistle cut through the morning air.
Elara froze. She knew that whistle. It was arrogant, pitch-perfect, and incredibly annoying.
She looked up. Perched on top of a rusted shipping container, sitting with one leg dangling casually over the edge, was Valerius. He was wearing a pristine white suit today, holding a parasol to shield himself from the sun.
"Bravo!" he called out, clapping slowly. "A masterful performance. The knee-slice was particularly artistic."
Elara narrowed her eyes. "Stalker."
"Observer," Valerius corrected, jumping down. He landed silently, ten feet from her. "I enjoy watching my property go berserk. It's like watching a nature documentary, but with more explosions."
"I am not your property," Elara snapped. "And you are weird. Who watches people kill for fun?"
"I do," Valerius grinned, closing his parasol. "I'm crazy for you, darling. Haven't we established this?"
Elara's face twisted in disgust. "Gross."
She drew her gun and fired. Point blank. Straight at his chest.
Bang.
The bullet punched a hole through his expensive white lapel. Valerius didn't even blink. He looked down at the hole, sighing.
"Italian silk," he mourned. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a tailor these days?"
"Why won't you die?" Elara groaned, holstering the gun aggressively. "Gordy took four minutes. The Spider-Queen of Sector 7 took two days. You? It's been two weeks. You are ruining my average."
"I'm flattered," Valerius chuckled, stepping closer, the bullet wound already knitting itself together beneath the shirt. "You're working so hard. It's cute. You look like a kitten trying to maul a tank."
"I hate you."
"Desire and hate are two sides of the same coin."
Valerius stopped in front of her, leaning down so they were eye-to-eye. The scent of blood from the warehouse mixed with his cologne—sandalwood and old rain.
"Speaking of desire..." A wicked glint entered his red eyes. "I couldn't help but dwell on our conversation last night. The 'virgin' revelation."
Elara stiffened. "Forget I said that."
"Impossible," Valerius purred. "It explains so much. The tension. The aggression. You are a tightly coiled spring, Elara."
He reached out, his finger tracing the line of her jaw.
"Maybe," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, "you want to know what all the fuss is about? Maybe you want a taste?"
"By who?" Elara asked, swatting his hand away. "You?"
Valerius placed a hand on his chest, feigning shock. "I am available. I am experienced. And I am told I am... educational."
"I would rather copulate with a cactus," Elara spat. "I will never have sex with you. I will never have sex with anyone. It's messy, bacteria-ridden, and pointless."
"Suit yourself," Valerius shrugged, though the amusement danced on his lips. "But you seemed very curious about the mechanics of it all."
Elara paused. She was curious. Not about the act, but about the data. She treated everything like an autopsy—she wanted to know how it worked, even if she didn't want to be the body on the slab.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the blood-spattered wall of the warehouse.
"Fine," she said. "Since you're so open about your 'thousands' of lovers. Answer me this: Why were they obsessed?"
Valerius raised an eyebrow. "We're doing this now? Over a fresh corpse?"
"Answer the question."
Valerius leaned back against the shipping container, crossing his ankles. "They were obsessed with the noise, mostly."
"Noise?"
"Vampires don't breathe heavy," Valerius explained clinically. "We don't pant. We don't grunt. We are silent. But they? They screamed. They shrieked. It was... deafening."
"Screaming in pain?" Elara asked, reaching for her notepad.
"Pleasure, apparently," Valerius said, rolling his eyes. "Though the line is thin. They would beg for it. 'Harder, Valerius.' 'Don't stop, Valerius.' It was repetitive. I prefer conversation, honestly. Discussing politics or art is much more stimulating than listening to someone yodel because I touched a nerve ending."
Elara snorted. "Yodel. Okay. What about... the oral thing? You mentioned that."
"Blowjobs?" Valerius asked bluntly.
Elara nodded, her face stoic.
"Messy," Valerius waved his hand. "Humans have teeth. They scrape. And they gag. It's very distracting when you are trying to stare at the ceiling and count the cracks in the plaster."
"They gagged?" Elara frowned. "Why? Is it a reflex?"
Valerius looked at her. He paused for a long moment. Then, a slow, predatory smirk spread across his face.
"It is a reflex," he said softly, "when the object reaches a certain... depth."
Elara blinked. She looked at his crotch, then back at his face. She did the math.
"You're bluffing," she said. "Anatomy has limits. What are the specs?"
"Specs?" Valerius chuckled. "You treat me like a weapon."
"You are a biological entity. Give me the measurements."
Valerius sighed, but he held up his hands to demonstrate. He spaced them apart.
"Eight inches," he said calmly. "Thick. Slight upward curve."
Elara's eyes widened slightly. She caught her breath. That wasn't monstrous, but it was... significant. Definitely well above the human average she had read about in medical textbooks.
"Eight inches," she repeated, calculating. "That explains the gag reflex. That hits the back of the throat."
"Precisely," Valerius nodded. "It's a mouthful. Literally."
"But..." Elara frowned, processing the data. "If you are that size... why did you say they felt 'loose'? Eight inches should provide significant friction. Logically, it should be a tight fit."
Valerius's amusement faded into that bored, distant look again.
"Initially, yes," he admitted. "For the first ten minutes, perhaps. But Elara... I am a Vampire. I do not tire. I do not finish quickly. I can go for hours. Days, if I am bored enough."
He gestured vaguely.
"Human bodies are soft. They are malleable. After an hour of... vigorous use... the muscles give up. They relax. They stretch. And because I take so long, and I am so relentless... eventually, there is no grip left."
Elara stared at him. "So you basically wear them out until they are useless?"
"Crude, but accurate," Valerius shrugged. "By the time I am actually close to feeling anything, it feels like waving a spoon in an empty pot. It is... disappointing."
Elara covered her mouth, trying to suppress a laugh.
"That is..." she snickered. "That is surprisingly tragic. You have a magic penis that ruins its own fun."
"Laugh all you want," Valerius grumbled, though he didn't look angry. "It is a curse. Eternal stamina, decent size, and zero sensation because I turn everyone into a windsock."
"So," Elara said, wiping a tear from her eye. "If you're so bored... what is your type? In bed. If you felt nothing physically, what did you do?"
Valerius's smile faded completely. The playful glint vanished, replaced by that heavy, dark aura that made the air around them turn cold.
He pushed off the container and took a step toward her. Elara instinctively reached for her knife, but she didn't draw it.
"My type," Valerius murmured, "is control."
He circled her slowly, like a shark.
"Since I feel no friction, no physical spark... I derive satisfaction from the mind. From dominance."
He stopped behind her, his voice a whisper in her ear.
"I like it slow, Elara. Agonizingly slow. I don't thrust like a wild animal. I bind them. I hold them down until they can't move a muscle."
Elara shivered. His voice was hypnotic.
"I like to watch them break," he continued, his hand hovering over her shoulder but not touching. "I edge them. I bring them to the brink of climax and stop. I make them beg. I make them cry. Not because I enjoy their pain... but because controlling their pleasure is the only way I feel powerful in that moment."
He walked around to face her again. His eyes were dark pits of ancient hunger.
"I like eye contact," he said softly. "I want them to look at me, to see the monster, and to realize that their body is betraying them. That they are unraveling while I am completely, perfectly still."
He leaned in, his lips inches from hers.
"That is my type, little virgin. Someone who fights for control... and loses it completely."
Elara stared at him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. It wasn't fear. It wasn't exactly attraction. It was the sheer intensity of his presence.
She shoved him backward. Hard.
"You are a psychopath," she breathed, her voice shaking slightly.
Valerius stumbled back, the dark spell breaking instantly.
He grinned, the playfulness returning.
"Takes one to know one, darling," he winked.
"I'm leaving," Elara announced, turning on her heel. "This conversation is terminated. I need to go sanitize my brain."
"Same time tomorrow?" Valerius called out after her.
"I'm bringing a flamethrower tomorrow!" Elara shouted back without looking.
"I'll wear something fireproof!"
As Elara marched away, checking her vitals on her watch, she noticed her heart rate was 140 beats per minute.
"Adrenaline," she told herself. "Just adrenaline."
But deep down, she knew that for the first time in her life, the monster didn't just scare her. He fascinated her.