The alarm went off at five-thirty.
Adrian turned in his bed and shut it off before it could ring a second time.
The room was still fairly dark, the kind of darkness that settled into walls. The apartment smelled faintly of oil and cleaning detergent.
He lay still for a moment, listening. Pipes. Traffic far away. The slow, uneven rhythm of breathing coming from the other room which meant his mother was already awake.
Adrian swung his legs off the bed and pulled on yesterday's jeans. The floor was cold under his feet. He didn't bother with the light. He knew where everything was. The chair that creaked if weight was put on the left leg. The loose board near the doorway. The corner of the table that had bruised his knee once and never apologized for it.
In the kitchen, his mother sat hunched over the small table, hands wrapped around an empty chipped mug. Her hair was pulled back unevenly, like she had done it without a mirror. She looked up when he entered.
"You're up early," she said.
"Busy day ahead," Adrian replied.
She hummed, unconvinced. There was bread on the counter, already sliced. Adrian noticed because she never sliced it unless she had been up for a while. He poured water into the kettle and set it on the stove.
"You didn't sleep," he noted.
"I rested for a bit," she replied with a smile.
That was a lie they both accepted.
He made tea for both of them the way she liked it and slid the mug toward her before she asked. She took it with both hands, sighing softly, like the warmth had surprised her.
Adrian finished his tea and went back to freshen up. There wasn't much water, so there wasn't much to freshen up with.
By the time he was done, his mother was already dressed and waiting for him.
"You don't have to walk me to the bus stop," she said.
"I know but I'll do it anyway."
They left the apartment together. The building was small, filled with people living in conditions similar to theirs. The hallway was cramped with old boxes and clothes arranged like makeshift beds. The paint had long chipped. Someone had taped a notice about rent increases to the wall. Adrian didn't stop to read it. He already knew what it would say.
Outside, the sky was just beginning to show shades of light blue. The street was waking up slowly, cautiously, like it was checking whether it was safe to be seen. Adrian kept his hands in his pockets as they walked, staying half a step behind his mother. It wasn't deference. It was habit. He had learned how to position himself where he could see everything and protect her if the need for it arises.
At the bus stop, she turned to him and kissed his forehead.
"Don't work too late," she said.
"I won't."
Another lie they both understood.
The bus came. She stepped on without looking back. Adrian waited until it pulled away before turning in the opposite direction.
He always worked late. It was the only way to earn enough for their survival.
The city shifted as the sun climbed. Shops opened halfway. Nothing unusual there.
A group of men stood outside a closed storefront, smoking, their laughter too loud for the hour. Adrian crossed the street before they noticed him. Not out of fear. Some people simply shouldn't see him.
Certain streets belonged to certain people. Adrian knew the borders like the back of his palm.
He turned and took the long way to work, even though it cost him ten minutes. Ten minutes was cheaper than a wrong glance.
The restaurant sat between a pawn shop and a tailoring shop that never seemed to have customers. The neon sign flickered — Cat's and Dog's — both "s" missing.
Inside, the lights were already on. The smell of frying oil and cheap air freshener clung to the walls. Adrian entered through the back door.
"You're late," his boss said without looking up from the cabbage soup he was serving.
"I'm early," Adrian replied, checking the clock.
The man grunted.
Adrian tied his apron, checked the delivery board, and started moving. He neither rushed nor slowed down. Orders came and went. Names blurred. Addresses stuck.
A customer snapped at him for cold food. Another handed him a tip that was mostly coins. Adrian thanked them both the same way.
Late evening came.
"Take this one," Mr. Moon said, tapping a receipt. "Rush. Don't bother coming back. Go home from there."
Adrian read the address.
'Wetland Hotels. Room 402. Floor 7.'
He paused for half a second.
"That same building?" he asked.
Mr. Moon shrugged. "Paid already."
It was a building meant for high-class society — people who had no business ordering from a restaurant like theirs, miles away. But the orders always came, and Adrian never questioned them.
He nodded and took the bag. Three takeout orders. Heavy. He checked the seal twice before heading out.
The building was downtown, a three-hour drive on foot, but Adrian arrived much earlier with the restaurant's delivery bike.
He glanced up at the fifteen floors and noticed the lights still on near the top. The building was polished to look unwelcoming, the kind that never advertised who owned it. Adrian entered through the service entrance, nodding at the guard who barely glanced at him.
Inside, the air was cooler than usual. Too quiet.
The elevator panel flickered when he pressed the button. Nothing happened.
"Maintenance," a janitor nearby said. "Been down since morning."
There wasn't supposed to be a janitor there that late, but Adrian ignored it.
He exhaled through his nose and looked at the stairwell sign. Time was already tight.
He took the stairs.
By the third floor, his arm ached from holding the bag steady. He adjusted his grip and kept going. On the sixth floor, voices drifted down the stairwell. Low. Controlled. Not arguing.
Adrian slowed.
He didn't stop immediately. That would attract attention if the people ahead were trained. He took two more steps before pausing.
The voices weren't raised.
That was what made them dangerous.
The address was only one floor above, and the stairwell led directly past the source of the sound.
He moved carefully. Soundlessly.
At the landing, the hallway stretched out wide and clean, lights dimmed, one door half-closed. Adrian got close to the door and then;
Then the gunshot rang out.
The sound cracked through the space and settled into his bones before his mind caught up. Adrian froze. His breath stalled halfway in.
He didn't run.
He stepped back into the shadow of a column, heart hammering hard enough to hurt. The smell of gunpowder hit him, sharp and nauseating.
Footsteps moved. Voices murmured.
"Clear."
Adrian didn't move.
He knew he needed to leave but his body refused to obey him.
The sound of lock sliding into place echoed followed by silence.
Adrian stayed where he was, the paper bag clutched to his chest, grease soaking through and burning his skin. He counted his breath to stay focused. One Two Three…
Then a voice cut through the quiet.
"Come out."
It wasn't loud and honestly it didn't need to be.
"I won't repeat myself."
Adrian swallowed and stepped forward into the light.
The man waiting for him was young. Younger than expected from the way he had spoken earlier. His calm didn't offer comfort. His gaze flicked to the bag, to Adrian's hands, to his face.
Looking at his features, it was obvious.
The man was a vampire.