Closed Starter - @rxgclity
Victor moved through Jackson Square, his senses on a knife-edge, the sweet, metallic scent of blood saturating the evening air. His hunger, an ever-present specter, clawed at his insides, yet he walked with an air of control, a facade as expertly crafted as the ancient ironwork that graced the balconies of New Orleans.
He had learned to avoid feeding directly from the vein—not out of any sense of morality, but as a means of self-preservation. A blood bag filched from an unwatched emergency vehicle, the brief and carefully occasional bite from Gabe, who understood his needs like no other, or the occasional tourist, their defenses lowered by the heady mix of jazz and joy that thrummed through the streets; these were his sustenance.
Around him, life in the square surged like a tide, people laughing and living with an abandon he both envied and despised. They were noise, they were chaos—they were temptation. A sea of pulsing veins beneath warm skin, each heartbeat a drumbeat, a rhythmic thumping that echoed the telltale heart in that old story he could never quite forget.
He closed his eyes briefly, allowing the cacophony to wash over him. The raucous laughter of friends, the earnest pitch of a street artist, the hushed tones of lovers nestled in shadowed corners; they were mere mortals who knew nothing of the darkness that lurked among them.
A deep breath, and he steadied himself, withdrawing from the edge. This constant pull between desire and restraint had become his existence. Yet he was no Poe protagonist driven mad by guilt—it was hunger that tormented him, a thirst that could never fully be quenched.
He opened his eyes, the predator gaze locking on nothing and everything. Victor, the heretic, the vampire, the man, continued his wander through the square, the veins around his eyes occasionally coursing visibly until he could calm and wish to cast a spell to silence the throbbing beat.
