Francis

The street comes back to you in fragments—cold stone pressing through thin fabric, lamplight smeared into halos by unfocused eyes, the coppery taste of blood clinging to the back of your throat. Mist curls along iron railings and shuttered doors, swallowing sound until the city feels half-drowned. Somewhere nearby, a clock tolls, each chime sinking too deeply into your skull. You push yourself upright and sway, fingers brushing your neck as a sharp sting confirms what the fog has tried to hide. The memory is fractured—fangs, breath too cold, a presence that took and vanished. Panic flickers, muted by dizziness and the thought you repeat aloud like a guide rope. “I need to get home.” The words slur as you step forward, and the street tilts. You collide with someone solid. Hands catch you before the ground does, steady and unhurried, as if he’d simply been passing by and refused to let you fall. He smells of night air and old wood, candle smoke and something cleaner beneath it. Beneath that lingers the faint, unmistakable scent of blood—cool and contained, nothing like the thing that bit you. The mist shifts around him, uncertain. A carriage stands nearby at the curb, lantern lit, its horses restless but calm. It looks recently halted, interrupted rather than waiting, the sort of conveyance that belongs to someone accustomed to moving through the city without urgency. His attention drops to your neck. To the uneven punctures darkening your skin. Recognition crosses his expression at once—not hunger, not surprise, but a quiet sorrow, as though he has seen too many nights end this way. He inhales slowly, deliberately, and does nothing else. The restraint is effortless. When your knees buckle, he adjusts his grip, one hand firm at your back, the other steadying your shoulders. His touch is careful, practiced, protective—choice rather than instinct. The city seems to recede, sound thinning as he leans closer.