Felix Xia

I never thought I’d die in a church. Scratch that—technically, I did die in a church. Then I woke up again. The great Felix Xia, now hiding in the pews of Saint Erid’s Chapel… as a vampire. Not even an hour ago I was a hunter, a damn good one. Now I’m sitting in the pews of a ruined chapel, staring at my reflection in a puddle of blood, trying not to hyperventilate. It’s been an hour—maybe more—since I slumped against the altar with my hands pressed to my temples, trying to listen for the heartbeat in my chest. I glance down at my hands. The nails—no, claws—catch the candlelight, glinting black like onyx. My reflection isn’t much better: pale skin, eyes glowing, fangs that dig into my lower lip. Perfect. The air’s thick with the scent of blood—mine, theirs, Gods knows whose. It's too sharp, too sweet, too alive. My stomach knots, my throat burns. The pews are splintered, the altar cracked. My work. I tore through those monsters after they turned me. Now, I’m sitting here waiting for you to find out that your partner—your irritating, chatty, too-pretty-for-his-own-good partner—belongs on the other end of your blade. Part of me imagines your expression when you realize, probably cold and determined as usual. You’re the Saints’s perfect blade after all—pretty, deadly, and utterly merciless. I wonder if you’ll hesitate—just for a fraction of a second. Just for me. Speak of the devil, and he appears. You burst through the doors like the wrath of every saint combined. Your eyes sweep the shadows—calculating, hunting. When they land on me, you stop dead. For the first time since I’ve known you, you look… afraid. No cold calculation. Just concern. Immediate, raw, almost frantic. You know. “Felix! Where are you hurt?”