Dawn was not a gentle arrival in Nocturne City; it was a slow, grey infiltration, leaching the darkness from the sky and revealing the stark lines of the skyline. In the private, quiet dimness of the Neuro-ICU suite, Lionel Valerian returned to consciousness not with a start, but with a gradual, absolute reassembly of his senses.
The first thing he cataloged was the pain. A deep, throbbing ache in his chest, centered on the memory of silver fire. It was a familiar pain, an old enemy. It spoke of hunters, of betrayal, of vulnerability. He pushed it down, compartmentalizing it with the ease of centuries of practice.
His hearing sharpened next. The hum of the city, seven stories below—a symphony of engines, distant sirens, the murmur of millions of lives beginning their day.
The closer, more immediate sounds: the soft, consistent beep of the cardiac monitor tracking his artificially sluggish heart, the whisper of the HVAC, the faint, rubber-soled tread of a nurse in the hallway.
Then, his sense of smell. The sterile, astringent assault of the hospital: antiseptic, bleach, the faint, plastic scent of new tubing. Underneath that, the dull, coppery tang of old, human blood on the sheets. The stale, anxious sweat of the staff.
And then… her.
It was a scent that cut through the medicinal fog like a knife—a clean, simple soap, perhaps jasmine, cheap but pure.
The crisp, clean scent of starched cotton, slightly damp, from extended wear. The faint, honest smell of fatigue and adrenaline, a scent he knew well from battlefields of a different kind.
But beneath it all, the core of it… was blood.
Not the blood on the sheets. Not the metallic scent of the bag hanging nearby. Her blood. The smell was a ghost, a lingering echo in the air, clinging to the blanket near his shoulder, imprinted on the bed rail where her hand had rested.
It was unlike any he had encountered in his long existence. Most human blood carried a base note of mortality, of fleeting salt and iron. This… this was different.
It had a clarity, a resonant quality that seemed to vibrate against the perpetual, silent scream of his own immortal thirst. It didn't stir hunger; it whispered of calm. It was a scent that promised silence for the roaring in his veins, a balm for the ancient, cold loneliness that was his constant companion.
His eyes opened. They were the colour of a winter storm, dark and depthless, reflecting no light. He turned his head slowly on the pillow, his gaze sweeping the room with predatory efficiency.
Empty. But her scent was everywhere. It was strongest near the side of the bed. He focused there.
His vision, sharper than any human's, picked out the slight scuff on the floor tile, the almost imperceptible shift in the dust. And there, half under the bed, a flash of unnatural colour. A small, rectangular object.
With a movement too quick for the human eye to properly register, his hand shot out from under the blanket.
He didn't sit up; he merely extended his arm, his fingers closing around the plastic card. He brought it to his face.
The photo was of poor quality, but it captured her. The tiredness around her eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth, the kindness that lingered despite it all. Elena Hart, RN. The name was simple, human—a nurse.
Memories, fragmented and pain-washed, reassembled. The alley. The searing agony of the silver. The blur of lights and noise.
Then, a different pain—the cold touch of steel, triggering a firestorm within. And then… a presence. A voice, cutting through the red haze. "I know. I'm trying to help." Cool, plastic tools, not metal, plucking the poison from his flesh. A face, hovering in his vision, pale and determined, haloed by harsh light. Her face.
She had not run. She had not screamed. She had intervened. She had seen the monster revealed and had chosen to tame it, not flee.
A slow, unfamiliar sensation uncurled in the frozen cavern of his chest. It wasn't gratitude. Gratitude was a fleeting, mortal currency, worthless to him. This was sharper, darker, more absolute. It was the recognition of a unique resource—a singular anomaly.
This woman, Elena Hart, possessed a blood scent that called to his deepest, most tormented self, not with hunger, but with the promise of peace. And she had demonstrated a courage and a peculiar, insightful defiance that marked her as different from the common herd.
His lips, pale and perfectly shaped, curved into something that was not a smile. It was the expression of a collector who has found a one-of-a-kind artifact, a strategist who has identified a unique and valuable piece on the board.
His thumb stroked the laminated surface of the badge, over her name. The word formed in his mind, not as a question, but as a decree, a fundamental realignment of reality.
Mine.
The decision was made in that instant. The hospital, the monitors, the fading pain—they were inconsequential. He had a new priority.
Throwing back the blanket, he sat up. The various sensors taped to his chest pulled free with soft, ripping sounds. The IV in his arm was removed with a swift, indifferent tug.
He stood, his tall and poised body clad in the standard-issue hospital gown, looking utterly absurd yet altogether formidable.
He glanced once more at the badge in his hand, committing the face and name to an eternal memory. Then, he walked to the window. The rising sun was a faint, pink threat on the horizon. He had time. He needed to be gone before its full touch reached this room.
Moving with a silence that belonged to the deepest night, Lionel Valerian, a centuries-old predator in a paper gown, opened the door to his private suite and stepped out into the bright, sterile hallway.
He melted into the early morning routines of the hospital, an unseen shadow, leaving behind a cold, empty bed, disconnected wires, and a mystery for the day staff to solve. The hunt for Elena Hart had already begun.