marsh flood, a mortal lackey and muscle for hire, no job too brutal- provided he's paid appropriately. he funneled most of his money into obtaining blackmarket testosterone and surgeries. good quality, results he was proud of, but expensive. always Just Only Last Job before he breaks free. just a bit more money and he's done.
the last job was a trap. what he thought was prey was in fact the hunter.
“Here’s a second chance for you. Don’t squander it.”
his sire shows him his face. shows how his body has shrivelled, skin become leathery, the collapsed and half-rotted cartilage of his nose and ears. the patchy remnants of his hair. why the fuck is it orange now- an almost hysterical laugh starts to rise in his chest as he realises just where he's seen that orange before. a fucking documentary, running late at night. people found in peat bogs. skin turned to leather, hair bleached to red and gold.
dead. a dead body. that's what he is now.
the laugh becomes a scream.