The air inside the APC was thick with the acrid stench of ash and stale tobacco as I drew another lungful of the nearly finished cigarette and exhaled slowly. Hours had bled into one another since I’d retreated inside, and by now the smoke was so dense a human would likely have suffocated. Ventilation was nonexistent, and I’d nearly chain-smoked the entire pack. For me it meant less than nothing and at that moment, I didn't care enough to wonder how I'd probably reek after. Like ten full ashtrays drying in the sun after being left out in the rain, most likely.

  It didn't matter. What mattered was that the silence and isolation hadn’t brought the solace I’d craved. Not in the slightest.

  I’d tried to empty my mind, to simply lie on one of the benches with my eyes closed, but it was a futile endeavor. My brain was a runaway train, bombarding me with thoughts and questions. And whenever I closed my eyes, violent flashes of light exploded behind my eyelids, like a fireworks display on the 4th of July.

  Eventually, I’d given up and just sat there, smoking cigarette after cigarette, for all the good it did. Which was none. Neither my mind nor my body craved sleep, yet I’d never felt so utterly depleted.

  Knock knock.

  The soft tapping on the metal door yanked me from my grim reverie. I swung my legs off the console, stubbed out the smoke in the makeshift ashtray fashioned from an MRE pan, and pulled the door open.

  “What is it, Miss Evans? Doubt it’s night yet,” I asked the tall blonde woman standing on the small stepladder, one foot already planted on the rung. From the corner of my eye, I could see both Miller sisters, and a very human-looking Shashka, watching from a distance.

  “Jon, may I speak with you?” Samantha Evans asked, her rich, heavily accented voice as calm and level as she could manage. But the tremor of her rapid heartbeat betrayed her trepidation. And I could hear it.

  “Miss Evans, with all due respect, you don’t want to be here. It reeks of smoke inside,” I answered, trying to keep my own voice as neutral as possible. Difficult, considering the raw edges of my mood, exacerbated by the insistent drumming of her blood.

  She took a breath, a slight wrinkle appearing on her nose at the stench of tobacco, but offered me a wry smile. “Young man. I grew up in Croydon. That may mean little to you, but let me put it this way. The inside of this car smells no worse than some of the pubs I used to frequent in my youth.”

  I nodded slowly, respecting her grit. Still. “And yet, if your heart were to beat just a fraction faster, it’d warrant a trip to the ER.”

  Her smile vanished, pupils constricting as she realized I could hear her pulse. This time, a ghost of a smile touched my own lips. “You don’t want to be here. And I don’t mean that in any other way than, you’re smart enough to understand that entering an armored car with a vampire is unhealthy. I respect the grift, Miss Evans, I do. And the front you’re trying to put up is good, but listen to your gut. Walk away. Once night falls, I’ll be good and gone, alright?”

  To my surprise, instead of retreating, the woman's brow furrowed, eyes flaring with a spark of defiance. Without a word, she gripped the support bar and hauled herself up the remaining steps, meeting my gaze directly.

  “Be a gentleman and offer a girl a hand, will you?” she said, adjusting her glasses with a free hand before extending it to me.

  Her brazen bravado caught me off guard. Despite myself, I took her hand and pulled her inside. She turned, grabbed the inside of the door, and with a steadying breath, closed it behind her.

  “Why do you want to leave, Jon?” she began, moving to one of the metal benches and settling down.

  “What’s this? They send you to talk to me?” I asked, swiveling the driver’s seat to face her and plopping down, fingers digging into my temple as if I could physically knead away the pressure building there.

  She didn’t answer, merely patted the bench beside her, motioning for me to sit.

  I sneered, letting her glimpse the elongated sharpness of my teeth. “Sorry, Miss Evans, but I’d rather stay here. You smell kind of delicious, and it’s been a good few hours since I last fed.”

  She froze mid-pat, and for a fleeting moment, I saw the trepidation flicker across her face again, only to be quickly masked by a carefully constructed calm.

  “Fair enough. Yes, Jon, the Miller sisters and… uhh, Shashka, was it?… did you know she’s a person, by the way? Not a dog?…”

  I nodded curtly and waved a dismissive hand, urging her not to get sidetracked.

  Samantha coughed delicately into her fist and quickly steered the conversation back on course. “Ah. Yes. Well, as I was saying, I was told that you want to leave. But no one sent me here, I came of my own volition. So I want to ask. Why?”

  I shrugged, spreading my arms wide as if to present her with the cramped interior of the APC. “Why not? I was by myself before all this. Why should now be any different?”

  She gave a small, understanding nod. “Understandable. You were a loner befo…”

  “Oh no!” I interrupted, leaning forward and holding up a finger. “No, no, no, Miss Evans. No, I wasn’t a loner. Not by a long shot. I was made into a loner. Not by choice, mind you. And you know damn well the reason why.”

  She held my gaze for a long, silent second before breaking it, her eyes falling to the cold iron floor. “Yes, I know. And while I cannot speak for the rest, I can speak for myself in that I have failed in my duties as a vice-principal.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come off it. I know you tried to stop Andreas. And what? Did the principal chew you out? Or maybe the mayor himself sent you a strongly worded email?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but I cut her off again.

  “Here’s the thing. It don’t matter. Because I don’t blame you. Hell, I don’t blame any of them. I got the self-awareness to admit that if the shoe was on the other foot, I would’ve done the same. I would’ve stood by and watched in silence, just like everyone else. Then gone home and slept like a baby. This was on me, for not standing my ground when I should’ve.”

  Her expression twisted into a grimace. “Good Lord, man. You were a victim. That was not on you…”

  “It was, Miss Evans. I let it get that far. Listen, I'm okay, alright? I'm not asking for understanding or pity here, hell I don't even want an apology. I've made peace a long, LONG, time ago with who and what I am. Trust me, there's nothing more liberating than seeing the ugly parts stare back at you in the mirror. No justification or pretension necessary when you admit to yourself that, just like everyone else, you're just a scumbag with a few rules.”

  “Jon, you are not a scumbag…”

  “FUCK I’M NOT!” I snarled, making her flinch. “Look out in front of this damn tank when you get out, woman! There are five corpses out there, and that’s on me. Hell, most of them are so mangled you’d need dental records to identify them if the world was still right.”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d stood, but there I was, on my feet, one arm gesturing beyond the still-covered window to the bloody tableau outside. My fingers pressed against my temple once more, and I squeezed my eyes shut, wincing, trying to quell the storm brewing in my head, the relentless thrumming and thundering.

  "Do you... regret doing that? Do you think that's what make you a scu...."

  "No. Not by a longshot. They were a bunch of slavers and rapists in the making. As far as I'm concerned, let God sort them out." I crossed my arms and bared my teeth in a grimace. "And THIS, right here, Miss Evans, is what I'm talking about. The way that I think, the fact that I can do something like that and then get over it, is what makes me a scumbag. Normal people, good people, don't think like this."

  Samantha just huffed and pulled off her glasses, wiping the lenses with a kerchief. "You'd be surprised the amount of thoughts normal, good people repress to preserve the veneer of normalcy, Jon. But I don't want to deviate. If they deserved it, why did you give them an out? Why do you have that rule?"

  My jaw locked, teeth gnashing as I squeezed hard enough it was a surprise a tooth didn't just pop.

  "Because taking a human life is not supposed to be easy, no matter how much they have it coming to them...."

  "And THAT, right there, is why you're not a scumbag, Jon" she interrupted, resting her glasses back onto her button nose with a smile.

  I sank back into the chair, dragging my hands down my face. “Listen, Miss Evans, this isn’t some holier-than-thou ‘I’m afraid of hurting anyone else’ bullshit, or some wannabe ‘I’m a monster’ idiocy. I’m leaving because in situations like this, people are gonna expect me to keep them safe. Because that’s what people do. If you’re strong, then they’re gonna expect you to help them. I wasn’t strong then, but now I am. And I do NOT want to bear that responsibility, okay?”

  She simply looked at me, hands folded neatly in her lap, and gave a slow, thoughtful nod, letting me meander on in my tirade.

  “I mean, really. You’re a grown woman. And you said you were raised in Croydon. In the slums, right? So you know as well as I do that the whole ‘great power, great responsibility’ crap’s only in comics. It’s not real. That’s either some fantasy or some saintly bull. And I’m not either. I’m just a person, and a bastard to boot. So, take the wins I gave you all, the APC, getting rid of Andreas, securing this damned warehouse, and let it be.”

  For the longest time, neither of us spoke, the silence hanging between us like a tangible wall, until Samantha broke it.

  “You got one of those for me?” she asked, gesturing to the makeshift ashtray.

  I quirked an eyebrow and pulled out the crumpled pack. Two cigarettes left. “Didn’t take you for a smoker, Miss Evans,” I said, putting one between my teeth and handing the other to her. She took it with a shrug, nodding a silent “thanks” as I flicked the lighter for her.

  “I’m not. But I used to be,” Samantha murmured, taking a long drag and leaning back against the cold metal wall, exhaling the thick smoke. A genuine, content smile softened her already attractive features. She chuckled softly.

  “People called me gyal or chavette way before they ever referred to me as ‘Miss’ anyhting.”

  “Slang, right?” I asked, lighting my own and taking a drag.

  Samantha nodded, a knowing glint in her eye. "Yep. I know the vibe I give off. Some snotty posh bitch who probably lived in a gated community and went to some fancy boarding school. But I'm not. Grew up in the slums and played the role I was supposed to play there to make due. I used the assets I had to survive. My looks, my charm, and while everyone else was busy hustling, I devoured the few books our school gave us like they were made of biscuit, all with the purpose of getting the hell out of there, make something of myself."

  I leaned back in the warm seat, listening intently. Where was she going with this? Was she trying to forge some kind of connection?

  "And you ended up as a vice-principal? Sorry, Miss Evans, that may mean something in Great Britain, but here, vice-principals aren't really…"

  "Appreciated?" she interjected, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

  "Respected."

  Samantha chuckled, a sound tinged with resignation, and nodded. "I know. But this was supposed to be a stepping stone. I'm actually a psychology major. Full merit scholarship, too. This was supposed to be a temporary thing until I could finish up my master's degree and set up my own practice in New York."

  I took another drag of the cigarette. "Well, that plan's gone straight out the window. World's gone to hell in a handbasket."

  "True. Not much room for mental health concerns when the world's full of monsters out to tear the flesh off your bones."

  "There a point to this, though?" I asked, blowing out another plume of smoke.

  Samantha pointed at me, taking another drag of her own cigarette. "Oh yes. Yes, there is. Your whole spiel about being a bastard, or scumbag, how it defines you. See, Jon, I don't agree with that. Because I'm not a whore."

  The cloud of smoke I was exhaling damn near stalled mid-air as I did a double take. "Where the hell did that come from?"

  Samantha winked, gracing me with a surprisingly warm, toothy smile. "I told you, I had to do whatever it took to not just survive, but to thrive. My looks, my charm. Full scholarship or not, I didn't have enough money to keep myself through uni. Rent, food, these things weren't covered. And the amount of work necessary to keep my grades at the top of the class and keep the scholarship didn't leave me much room for a part-time job. So, I pole-danced during it. Among other things."

  I held off my reply for a moment, the information a surprising twist. It was hard to reconcile the always elegant, always serious, always lady-like Samantha Evans with the mental image of her girating on a pole, clad in nothing but skin and a smile. An interesting image, no doubt, but a difficult one to fully grasp. "You did what you had to do," I deadpanned finally.

  And it was the truth. I wasn't trying to be considerate of her feelings. She'd made the best of a bad situation, done what she had to in order to escape. I could relate. Heaven knows I hadn't been working double shifts at the construction site because I enjoyed it. It was either that or sell drugs. And the latter would have made me the kind of societal refuse my dear old foster parents always assumed I'd become.

  Samantha tilted her head, fixing me with that piercing gaze of hers. "Oh? But I did do it, though. I took off my clothes and danced in front of perfect strangers. I even performed extra services for a select few who were willing to pay. So tell me, Jon. Am I a whore and only that? Or do context, circumstance, and necessity not factor in?"

  I sucked air in through my teeth. "I get where you're driving at."

  "No, Jon. You're not. See, I'm not a whore. But at the same time, necessity and circumstance aside, I still did do that. And just because I had to, doesn't excuse me from the consequences of my actions. I will always have to live with the fact that there are videos out there of me stripping. And maybe one day, those videos may resurface, and my reputation will be dragged through the mud. I will always, in the situation where I find a potential partner, have to have this conversation and hope that said partner can see past it. Action and consequence, Jon. You said it yourself, and it's true."

  I huffed, a small, cynical sneer twisting my lips. "Well, you don't gotta worry about it anymore, though."

  "True. But I still have to live with the fact that for the longest time, I made the willing choice to objectify myself. Simple as that. I made the choice, I bear the consequences."

  "Alright then? So what're you trying to say?"

  "That I am and am not a whore. Both can be true at the same time."

  I quirked an eyebrow, the storm raging in my skull making it hard to fully grasp her meaning.

  "My actions, my choices are an immutable fact of my past. No matter what, the fact that I did those things will remain part of me. Yes, Jon, I was a whore. But that doesn't define me, because you know what else I was? Ambitious. Driven. Perseverant. Those are facts that will also never change."

  My grimace deepened. Her train of thought was becoming disturbingly clear.

  "For the record, Miss Evans, I don't think you're a whore. I think you got dealt a bad hand and made the best of it. But I still don't know what this has to do with me."

  Samantha leaned forward to stub out her half-smoked cigarette and scoot closer to my seat, holding up a finger. "I've read your file, Jon. After I failed to properly help you with Andreas, I read it just so that I could know who it was I had just failed. And while that's not enough to truly know a person, it's enough to surmise and assume."

  My grimace hardened into a scowl. The heat of anger joined the throbbing pressure in my skull. I hated this. More than anything. People who claimed to know me when they'd never taken the time. The foster "parents" did that. The placement agents did that. And now she was about to do the same. Information in a file doesn't show who a person is.

  I leaned in, a guttural growl rumbling in my chest, my voice dropping several octaves.

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  "Careful."

  She hesitated, her heart skipping a beat. I could smell the sharp tang of fear sweat on her pale skin. All it would take was a lunge, and she'd be dead. She knew it, and so did I. But the glint of determination in her eyes only flickered before solidifying. She continued, perseverant and determined, despite being afraid.

  "You're a survivor. No adoptions. Twelve foster homes in almost half as many years, starting when you were seven. Filed for emancipation at fourteen. Your entire life has been a struggle to survive."

  I hissed a breath through my lengthening teeth. "No different than any other orphan out there. Everyone's got a sob story."

  Samantha pressed on, ignoring my interruption. "Statistically speaking, that's the moment when teens in your situation should start getting into big trouble. Drug trade, gang violence, so on and so forth. But you? Record clean as a whistle. Instead, you immediately got a part-time job in a construction company as an unskilled laborer. It's atypical, but still textbook, Jon."

  My thumb tapped against the armrest. I didn't like her examining me. Not one bit. She carried on, ignorant or indifferent to my discomfort.

  "Kids in your situation, more often than not, they feel cornered, so they fall in with the wrong crowd. Then it's just a freefall into a lifetime of petty crime and prison. But every now and again, an atypical example like you comes along. Kids that, despite statistics and situation, will keep their noses so clean you'd think they're the model child from a fifties sitcom."

  She moved closer. Her pulse throbbed in my ears so loud I could just reach out and pluck it from her throat.

  "Let me guess, Jon. Everyone around you told you the same thing over and over, didn't they? That you'd grow up into nothing. That all you'd be is nothing. Just another low-level gangbanger in a cell or a morgue drawer, right? So you did everything right. Despite the hardship, despite the poverty, you kept on the path of hard work just to spite them. To shove it down their throats. It's called psychological reactance. It's textbook, Jon."

  My jaw clenched so tight I felt my mandible joint pop. It was all I could do to stop myself from grabbing her shirt collar and throwing her out of my APC. Yeah, she had me pinned, no doubt about it. But who the hell was she to be so blunt? To delve so deep into my past when I'd kept my own history to myself? Never bothered no one with it, because it was damn sure no one else's business.

  "Yeah. You got my number there," I hissed through gritted teeth. "So what's it make me other than a bastard with rules? How am I wrong? You guessed right, the only reason I kept on the right side of the law was to spite all them fuckers who told me I couldn't. That doesn't make me good. It makes me shallow."

  Samantha shook her head, her gaze unwavering. "Wrong. You call it rules and shallowness, I call it instinct. You think you can define good and evil in absolutes? No, Jon. People don't work like that. Reality doesn't function like that. Morality isn't objective, it's subjective. People don't just make rules out of thin air; that's not how the human mind works. People develop rules based on their natural inclinations and instincts. So here's my assertion, Jon. Based on what I've read in your file and seen you do. The reason for my entire diatribe about my past and yours."

  All trace of fear and hesitation had gone from her eyes. Samantha Evans bore into me without so much as a single scrap of doubt, arms crossed over her chest, spine straight and jaw set.

  "You have a natural inclination to help people. To do the right thing. And I'm not talking about some nonsense hero thing here. I'm talking about the natural inclination to be protective and nurturing. And yes, that also implies your inclination towards the opposite. Ruthless, uncompromising brutality and violence towards those you've perceived as deserving of it. The term for it, is moral absolutism. Does it make you good? Evil? No idea. But it makes you, you. And you've been helping, admit it or not. That's why you made sure to secure our safety before taking care of the threat, just a few hours ago. That's why you carried Tim on your back. That's why you helped clear the warehouse. And that's why you brought the girls that armored vehicle. At any single point, you could have chosen not to. But you didn't."

  I could feel my eye twitch uncontrollably. "I…"

  "You've made being a survivor your entire existence. With all the dark and brutal realities it implies, and now you run every decision through that filter. Then, when you take actions that run counter to that survival mechanism, you rationalize and justify them as though they somehow, in some way, come from a bad place inside you. A selfish place. So you've created a mental mechanism to dissociate yourself from those natural inclinations that come to you and just call them… rules."

  "Stop fucking with my head, you damn shrink. If you think you can mind-fuck me into staying, you…" I spat, the word laced with venom.

  Samantha just shook her head, eyes holding something new, something odd. I couldn't quite decipher it, but it felt… warm. "Jon, I'm not here to convince you to stay. I'm just here to thank you. And I'm going to do that by talking some sense into that thick head of yours, like it or not. Even if you attack me, I'm going to do it. I already failed in my duties once. I refuse to do so again."

  She wasn't giving up. And that thrumming in my head was only getting worse.

  "I know you're angry, Jon," she began slowly, voice quiet but steady. "I can hear it in your tone, in your words. You're angry at yourself, and for no good reason. What happened to you, what you've been through, none of it was your fault. But your anger? It's misdirected. And that's okay. It's a natural reaction. But let's talk about what is your fault."

  I snorted, incredulous. "I'm well aware of my many mistakes, thank you very much. I don't need you to list them out for me."

  She shook her head, eyes still steady on mine, patient as a saint. "No. Not your mistakes. Your actions. You said you let it happen. That you stood by. But Jon, that's not how trauma works. You were victimized. That means you were caught in a situation that was out of your control. People who suffer trauma often become paralyzed by their fear, by the belief that they're powerless. The fact that you were a victim isn't your fault. That you let it define you, is. Same goes for being a survivor or, in your own words, a scumbag with rules. These do not define you, they're just parts of you."

  She leaned forward even more, ever shifting closer on her bench, forcing me to meet her gaze. "But you're not powerless. And you're not a scumbag. I know you think you are, but you're not. When you said you didn't want to bear the responsibility of protecting anyone else, I heard it. You're worried that if you stay, you'll fail someone, that you'll mess up. Scumbags don't think like that."

  I scoffed, but it didn't come out as loud as I'd intended. The storm inside me hadn't quieted, but her words… they clung to me like a second skin. And damn it, it hurt. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  "I do," she replied. "I may not know exactly what it felt like for you, Jon, but I know trauma. And you've had a lifetime of it. I know how it makes us question everything about ourselves, forces us to latch on to the simplest and easiest answers. Because it all feels like it was our fault, since we couldn't stop it."

  I gritted my teeth, but she wasn't done. She wasn't backing down, and as much as I wanted to tell her to shut the hell up, a part of me I hadn't been aware of wanted to hear it. Needed to. "What a load of crap. I'm not gonna try to justify what I did to those poor bastards splayed out in pieces out there on the concrete. Hell, I'll go a step further. They had it coming and I'm glad I did it."

  She sighed, her eyes filled with a flicker of apprehension, and nodded. "Yes, you did. Do I agree with it? Partially. Did I want you to do it? No. But do I understand why? Yes. And this is important Jon, so it bears repeating: you, despite it all, gave them an out."

  "And this also bears repeating : good people don't do things like that," I said, my voice so tired it sounded as if a stranger had spoken, even to my own ears.

  "Jon, you're not talking about a good person. You're talking about a harmless person. Being good isn't about not being able to do that. It's about having that capability and choosing when or if to do it."

  "Jon," she continued, her voice softer now, as if speaking to a fragile thing on the verge of shattering. "The fact that we're here, right now, talking. The fact that those two girls are out there, alive. All this is because you're making the choice not to act on your impulses, despite us smelling... delicious, over and over again. Do you understand what I'm trying to say? How much do you want my blood right now? How much do you want to just bury your teeth in my throat?"

  I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because answering would force me to acknowledge the raw, primal urge, and it was only by burying it deep within my psyche that I was managing to keep it leashed.

  She leaned back, folding her hands together. "Exactly. The fact that you can doesn't make you a monster. The fact that you can and choose not to makes you a man. And a damn good one to boot."

  I sat there in silence, fingers raking over my face again, pressing against the relentless weight of my thoughts. And for the first time, through the haze, a new thought flickered to life. Maybe, just maybe, I could stop running. If only for a little bit.

  "Okay," I muttered, my voice hoarse. "Okay. I'll think about it. But I'm making no promises. I'm not some hero, and I'm not here to play the savior."

  Samantha's smile softened, but there was something else in her eyes now. Compassion? Understanding? "Not why I came here for, but I'm glad to hear it. I don't need you to be a hero, Jon. I just want you to be what you are. Just another guy, doing his best." She rose from the bench, hands gently resting against her hips. "We're all doing the best we can. It's all we can do."

  I slowly pushed myself up, ready to open the door for her.

  And then it hit. Like a white-hot poker searing through the back of my skull, the jolt of pain was as sharp and sudden as a spear thrust. I grabbed the sides of my head, crumpling to my knees with a strangled cry. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!!" I roared, squeezing my temples as hard as I could, expecting my head to explode at any moment.

  "Jon? JON?" Samantha's voice echoed, hollow and distant, as though she were miles away, not kneeling beside me, hands gripping my shoulders.

  Slowly, second by second, moment by moment, the agonizing pain subsided, receding into a dull, persistent thrum.

  "Am fine… I'm fine… just a head…ache…" I slurred, my jaw feeling stiff and strangely clenched.

  "Jon… that's not… what's happening?" Samantha asked, genuine alarm etched on her face.

  "It's nothing, I told you, just been having a really bad headache over the last few hours and… it's not going away," I managed to hiss, massaging my mandible until the odd stiffness began to ease. "I'm fine."

  She didn't move or speak, gaze fixed on me, brow furrowed with concern. "Jon, your nose is bleeding."

  Dark, viscous tar stained the back of my hand as I drew it across my face. She was right. I blinked hard, trying to focus, but the world swam before my eyes, shrouded in a hazy mist. The pain remained a jagged presence in the back of my skull, and I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to dull it further. But it only intensified everything. Every sound, every flicker of imagined light, felt like a fresh assault on my senses.

  What the hell was happening?

  Even the Animal's presence in the back of my skull thrashed and yelped, a disgustingly pitiful noise.

  Was I starving? No. It couldn't be. I'd fed on the Minotaur hours ago, and only the want for blood, not the desperate need, was a faint tremor in my stomach.

  Two gentle, long-fingered hands cupped either side of my face, slowly tilting my head up until Samantha Evans's face was inches from mine. The light of worry in her eyes had shifted, replaced by something else. Realization.

  "Jon. Jon, focus on me, alright? When's the last time you slept?"

  I tried to shake my head, but the thrumming threatening to split my skull open had morphed into a sickening vertigo. My movements felt sluggish, disconnected. "What?"

  She didn't release her grip, her hands a surprisingly strong vise around my face. "Shit, your eyes are rolling over. Jon, the girls told me what you are. They gave me a summary of what's happened since yesterday. Now, FOCUS! Since you've become a vampire, when's the last time you slept?"

  "It's fine, Miss Evans. It's dulling out, I'll be fin…"

  "Jon. It's not fine. And I think I know why. Just answer the question." Her voice brooked no argument.

  I swallowed, halting my attempt to push her away, my hands still gripping her wrists. "I haven't slept since getting turned. I can't sleep. And I mean that literally."

  Samantha's mouth tightened into a frustrated grimace. "You stupid man." She pulled her hands away and, instead of heading for the door, moved back to the bench and sat, taking off her dusty jacket and folding it across her lap. The long-sleeved white shirt beneath clung to her form, a detail that registered even through the throbbing pain.

  "What you just experienced, right now, are the symptoms of an aneurysm. Jon, you might be a vampire, but if you've turned only a few days ago, your brain is most likely not used to it. Sleep is how the brain relaxes, just like a muscle. It needs to compartmentalize, shift and sort through information, categorize it. You've been active for the last three days, jumping from one life-or-death situation to the next. It's overstimulated."

  "Shit. Well, that sucks. But I think I'm better now, it's starting to dull out…"

  "It doesn't work like that. We don't know the extent of your regeneration, so yes, maybe it's starting to dull out because your brain is healing itself, but this doesn't have to do with your anatomy. It has to do with your mind. The more overstimulated it's going to get, the more you'll have a chance to have another… episode."

  "Another aneurysm, you mean?"

  Samantha held up her hands and shook her head. "I don't know. I don't even know how it'd work. An aneurysm is a blood vessel bursting, but you're a vampire. I mean… does your heart even beat anymore?" She quickly shook her hands again. "Anyway, it doesn't matter how. The symptoms were those of an aneurysm. What if you get an episode when you have to fight?"

  Despite the pain receding, her words resonated with a chilling truth. The pressure was still there, a dull, persistent throb, as piercing as her point.

  "Damn it. I think you may be right." I started pacing the cramped confines of the APC, mind racing for a solution. "Maybe I could raid the pharmacy for some sleeping pills… no, that won't work… substances don't work at all on my body…"

  "Jon?"

  "Maybe force myself. Just lie still for a dozen hours… sooner or later, I'm bound to fall asleep… ah, but I can't even keep my eyes closed…"

  "Jon!"

  "Maybe I can…"

  "JON!!!"

  I snapped my head back towards Samantha, taken aback by the unexpected authority in her voice. She was glaring at me, arms crossed over the folded jacket in her lap. "Will you please just come here? Lie on your back on the bench and put your head on my lap."

  I tilted my head, a flicker of my usual cynicism returning. "Miss Evans, I don't think a lap pillow's gonna fix this. Plus, if you wanted my face near there, there are easier ways to ask for it."

  If there had been any crickets in the vehicle, even they would have fallen silent at Samantha's deadpan, utterly unamused expression.

  "Now, young man," she stated, all previous familiarity gone, replaced by the firm, no-nonsense tone of the disciplinarian I'd glimpsed before.

  With a sigh of reluctant resignation, I complied, lying back on the bench and resting the back of my head on the bundled-up jacket cradled in her lap.

  "Close your eyes," she said, looking down at me and popping her fingers softly.

  "It won't help, there's…"

  "Flashes of light whenever you close them, no? And no matter what, you can't seem to get your mind to calm down, like it won't shut up."

  I clamped my mouth shut and stared up at her. Couldn't have described it better myself.

  "My sister was a chronic insomniac. So I know exactly what it means to be unable to sleep. And I know how to help. Now, close your eyes." Her voice was firm, reassuring.

  I followed her request this time, closing my eyes and trying to relax. Instantly, a kaleidoscope of colorful light exploded behind my eyelids, making them twitch uncontrollably. It was almost unbearable, like staring directly into the sun.

  "Good, now hold your eyes closed. I know it's uncomfortable, but do your best," Samantha instructed, and I squeezed my eyes shut, gritting my teeth against the painful flashes.

  Then, gentle yet firm fingers pressed into the bridge of my nose, massaging, circling the orbital rim around my eyes. Before I could even fully register the sensation, the strain of keeping my eyes closed lessened. Slowly, bit by bit, the violent flashes began to falter. First, their frequency diminished. Then, their intensity waned. Finally, they reduced to a blurry haze, like a dissipating mist, until even that faded, leaving only blissful, quiet dark.

  The breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding escaped in a slow, ragged sigh, and my hands unclenched from the tight fists I hadn't known I'd made.

  "What is this?" I murmured, a sense of bewildered relief washing over me.

  "Reflexo-therapy," she answered, her fingers still moving, pressing and prodding along my cheekbones and lower jaw. "My sister used to need pills to sleep even a few hours. Eventually, her body built up a tolerance. It got really bad. Narcolepsy. Fainting spells. Even the risk of cerebral aneurysms. So, I used to do this for her, every night for hours. Pushing on nerve bundles and reflex points until she relaxed enough to be able to rest."

  "Sounds like some new-age hippie bullshit," I snickered, only to be rewarded with a sharp flick across my nose.

  "It is. But it worked for her. And by the looks of it, it's working for you. Now, no more talking. Even if you can't fall asleep, as long as you rest, it should help. Try to focus only on the feeling of my hands massaging the tension away, and…" She exhaled a deep, long sigh. "...breathe."

  "I don't need to breathe."

  "Doesn't matter. The conscious action of breathing rhythmically is going to help you focus on something other than the thoughts. So, just humor me, okay?"

  "Alright, Miss Evans."

  "Samantha. Or Sammy. The world's changed, Jon. Formality's got no place in it anymore."

  I gave as much of a nod as I could manage with my head still cradled in her lap and took a deep breath.

  Hours passed, at least a couple of them. For all my skepticism towards "holistic" mumbo-jumbo, the results were undeniable. Her hands hadn't stopped for a single second, and with every gentle push and prod on my face, with every rhythmic inhale and exhale, I'd experienced the closest approximation to sleep a vampire could. There'd been none of the unconsciousness of human sleep, no half-remembered dreams or imperceptible passage of time. I'd remained alert and awake, keenly aware of every motion, every sound, every scent both inside and immediately outside the APC.

  More than once, one of the Miller sisters had cautiously approached, checking to see if everything was alright, only to be immediately shooed away by Samantha when they'd cracked open the door.

  Most unexpectedly, despite her close proximity, the intoxicating scent of her blood, and the steady thrum of her pulse in my ears, I'd found it all surprisingly easy to ignore. While the "want" for blood remained a faint, ever-present thought in the back of my mind, the conscious act of breathing coupled with the gentle pressure of her fingers had rendered its urgency negligible.

  And along with it, the relentless cascade of thoughts in my mind had thinned to a manageable trickle. The fears and doubts I'd felt facing the goblins, the thrill of victory against the orcs, the exhilarating tension against the Minotaur, the spite and trepidation battling Andreas and his crew – all of it, and so much more, became clearer, less overwhelming.

  All achieved by simply breathing and allowing myself to relax, if only for a few hours.

  It was… normality. For a few precious hours, I'd felt almost normal again. Almost human. An illusion, nothing more, but a welcome one nonetheless.

  I opened my eyes slowly. Samantha's fingers stilled where they were gently squeezing my earlobes, a soft, patient smile gracing her lips.

  "I daresay it was a success. We've been at this for three hours now," she said with a small, satisfied smirk.

  I sat up slowly, popping my neck. No pressure in my head. No stray thoughts. No pain. It felt as if I'd just woken from a long, refreshing nap. And all the frustrations and conflicting thoughts of mere hours ago felt distant, unreal. Like waking up after a drunken, emotional outburst, filled with a vague sense of shame. Bloody hell. She'd been right. My brain had "overheated." I didn't act like that, I didn't break. Come hell or high water, I'd always dealt with it, somehow, in some fashion or another. Usually good old repression.

  Samantha chuckled softly when I didn't immediately respond and got up from her seat, popping her own finger joints. "Tell you what, Jon. If you do decide to leave, take this as a standing invitation. Every two or three days, come back here, and I'll help you sleep again. No strings attached. Sounds good?"

  "Yeah, I'll think on it," I said, massaging the back of my neck, a newfound lightness in my limbs.

  She patted my shoulder and moved towards the door.

  "Sammy," I whispered.

  "Yes, Jon?"

  "Sweeten the deal? If I stay, can you help me every day? Think an hour a day ought to be fine."

  Her smile widened, a genuine, toothy grin. I searched for any hint of manipulation, any trace of self-satisfaction at a plan succeeding. There was none. Just pure geniality. She wasn't just grateful that I was considering staying. She was acknowledging me, my capabilities, the help I was offering. She was simply… grateful.

  And I felt… I didn't know what. All I knew was that no one had looked at me like that before. As though they didn't want something from me, just wanted me to be there.

  "I'd do that even if you choose to leave. Whenever you choose to."

  With that, she opened the door and stepped out of the armored vehicle.