Andrew remembers it vividly, that drunken night, the night he knew his life would not be long enough to take care of Seamus, yet at the same time he was strangely relieved that soon, perhaps, he would meet his wife again.

Four-stage blood cancer, that was what the doctor had said with grave certainty.

A punishment, no doubt, for all the killings he had done, and for the Vitalis Cores inside his body devouring his blood whenever he dared to use them.

His flesh had grown weaker, his veins felt poisoned, and every breath carried the weight of time running out.

He stared at the old photo of his wife, frozen in time for more than fifteen years. She never changed, never aged like he did.

The lines on his face, the bitterness in his bones, all stood in cruel contrast to her eternal beauty.

A sigh escaped him, heavy and raw.

He regretted not telling Seamus about Alice when he was still a child and even now. It was simply too painful, too cruel. He had wanted his son to remain ignorant of the shadows that lurked behind their lives.

But Andrew also feared that the memory of Alice's death, which Seamus had witnessed too young to understand, might one day claw back into his boy's mind like a feral beast.

Children's memories at an early age were not easily erased. They could sleep, yes, but they never truly vanished.

He had hoped Seamus could live his life untouched by that darkness, free from the parasite of grief that had once eaten Andrew alive.

Then, suddenly, a glass of whisky slid across the counter before him. Andrew lifted his head sharply, and his tired gaze met a pair of blood-red eyes gleaming like molten rubies.

He straightened instantly, his back rigid, his breath caught in his throat.

"What are you doing here?"

His voice was cautious, firm, but beneath it lay a tremor of unease.

The woman before him was far too dangerous to ignore. Isolde Velstrath. She was supposed to be his 'ally,' yet never truly was.

For two years, he had been absent, cutting their cooperation and she was just there hovering near enough to haunt, yet never stepping into his life until now.

Her position in this mess was too strange to define: not enemy, not friend. Something else entirely.

But he did help him in many ways to get rid of his enemies.

"What do you mean?" she tilted her head, silver hair spilling over one pale shoulder, a smile curving her lips.

"You are alone. So I came to accompany you."

She slid gracefully onto the bar stool beside him, her presence at once out of place and suffocating.

In this old, rugged bar, her elegance was like a diamond thrown into the dirt, blinding and unnatural.

"Don't you get lonely?" she asked with casual sweetness, though her tone carried that subtle cruelty he had always recognized.

Andrew's hand twitched, nearly throwing the whisky glass at her in disgust. Her being here, sitting so close, was unbearable.

"I do get lonely," she continued with a sly smile, sipping the cheap beer as if it were wine.

"You are a nice male company, Andrew and I think you surely feel the same, there isn't a man or woman that can hold my charm."

He forced a smirk and leaned closer, his voice laced with irony. "Even when my son is by my side?"

"Mm," she hummed, tilting her glass. "A child cannot fill the hole that a woman's warmth does, can it?"

Andrew narrowed his eyes, a dangerous edge flashing. Normally, when she mentioned Seamus, he would snap, curse her, even threaten.

But tonight was different. His hand, with deceptive gentleness, rested on her shoulder as he answered in a low, mocking tone:

"Yes, I am lonely. My son cannot fill that void. And you—Isolde—you've always flirted with me, even when we barely crossed paths. I am tempted by you."

The word flirt was bitter in his mouth; manipulation laced with sweet words was the truer word. She laughed, soft and amused, as though his act entertained her.

Yet for Andrew, this moment felt different. He knew he was nearing the end. And Velstrath—whether devil or savior—was his last chance to secure his son's future.

If he wanted to make sure he was also there for a while to see his son longer, he needed to be 'kind' or even being a 'fool' in her eyes. Ignorant of what is happening around them, smile and joke like a foolish man, drunk and gamble like a pathetic one.

So Isolde won't get rid of him too fast.

"You know," she said suddenly, eyes glinting, "my daughter is rather fond of your son."

Andrew raised a brow, lips twisting. "And? Planning to use her to bind him to you?"

She smirked, tapping her chin. "Tempting, but dangerous. My eldest daughter is… too emotional. She would never share. It would end in disaster."

Andrew laughed harshly, mockery spilling out. In the end, humans were always the playthings of vampires.

"And so," Isolde leaned closer, her perfume cold and intoxicating, "I told her I knew the way to make him ours."

Andrew's eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, she whispered:

"You are restless for the touch of a woman. I can smell the rot in your body, Andrew. You won't live long. But I can give you what you crave: comfort, protection for your son, and perhaps, even a family."

His jaw clenched, every instinct screaming this was a pact with the devil. But at least, he thought bitterly, Seamus would not be left alone.

He would be devoured by them blood by blood, yes. But he won't live full of regret, running away from town to town, city to city just to find peacefulness that he would never get cause the way to reach that place was to get away from himself.

Andrew didn't want Seamus to be just like him.

***

Andrew's chest ached, the pain sharper now, not only from sickness he has but from guilt.

He had betrayed his son.

Betrayed the very child he swore to protect, twisted him into the very kind of monster he had wanted him never to become.

If he had known it would end like this, he would have chosen differently. He would have taken Seamus far away: across oceans, to cities and mountains and endless roads.

He would have taught him how to defend himself, how to survive without anyone else. And if, in the end, there was no way forward… then perhaps they would have chosen death together.

A final act of love, a double suicide.

There was always an escape, always another path, and perhaps even now, though fragile and faint, it was not too late.

"See?" Isolde's voice broke through his spiral of regret, smooth and cruel.

She lifted her glass, crimson liquid swirling like blood under the moonlight. "I never broke our promise. I have not harmed him, nor have I turned him into one of us. He became what he is now because of that, the Crimson Nectar."

Her words dripped with certainty. "It is his fate, Andrew. Something he cannot retreat from."

"That bullshit again!"

Andrew snapped, his voice raw, emotion spilling through every word.

"Crimson Nectar, don't twist it into something holy! They're nothing more than your gourmet food."

Isolde laughed, low and mocking, the sound carrying through the dark room. "Oh, Andrew… you and your son are so alike. Both are so ignorant. Or perhaps not ignorant, just in denial. Always running away from anything that feels… painful."

She moved gracefully, circling him as though she were a vulture and he the dying carcass. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor.

"Crimson Nectar is not simply food. They are a special kind of vampire, rare and fragile. Their nourishment is different. While most of us feed on blood, they feed on us. They take in the venom in our fangs, they drink in our power."

Her eyes glinted, sharp and hungry. "In your son's case… that absorbent takes the form of sex. His awakening was triggered by it. His power, his hunger, his existence, they are bound to it."

Andrew's fists clenched, his throat dry. "What the hell are you saying?"

The words spilled out harshly, disbelief wrestling with horror. His son, a vampire who didn't drain others but instead was drained by them? The idea was grotesque, unbearable.

"What kind of twisted nonsense is that?"

Isolde shook her head slowly, pityingly, as though humoring a child.

"Nonsense? Hardly. The power your son wields is ours. That dream manipulation which slaughtered his bully? That bone sword that felled the scavengers? None of it is truly his."

"Every gift comes from us, from contact with us. Crimson Nectar can borrow, can steal, can inherit, every power we hold."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a near whisper, like a secret she delighted in sharing. "That is what makes them rare. Special and dangerous. But because most of them die too quickly, their potential is lost, their legacy forgotten. The records are fragments, scattered myths. Too little for your kind to understand."

Andrew studied her carefully now, catching the subtle shift in her tone. The way she spoke of Seamus, it wasn't as prey, wasn't as food. No, it was something else. Something sharper. A tool. A vessel.

"What are you planning to do with him?"

His voice carried a hard edge, but inside, fear coiled like a serpent in his gut.

Isolde's smile widened, elegant and cruel. "Why, the same thing you wished for him, of course. To carry on where you failed. To break through the walls you could never shatter."

"Ironic, isn't it?" she purred. "Your son will inherit the burdens you could not bear. He will walk the path that broke you. Every scar, every chain, you passed it to him."

Andrew's breath caught, his throat tight.

"Ahh… if only you had been stronger, Andrew. If only you had been more than what you were. Then perhaps Seamus would not now share your fate."

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