Instead of a vampire spawn, the character is a vampire hunter, made so because he narrowly escaped being turned by a bloodthirsty vampire lord. He wears the wounds of the bite mark as a reminder of what he could have become. As the years pass, the dark sorcery of the mark prolongs his life, and he becomes the most feared hunter in the realm.
Until one night, he comes upon a youngling spawn, clearly the runt of its clan. The poor thing is frightened, starving, horrified at what they're becoming. They scuttle along the walls out of sheer panic, clawing the floor until their paling fingers bleed. They scream in agony as blood dribbles from their mouth, not from a kill, but from the two sharp fangs bursting from their tender gums.
And for the first time, the hunter stays his silver blade. His finger will not squeeze the ready trigger.
This isn't a creature of the night, a monster hunting for the thrill.
They're hungry, they're at their weakest, most vulnerable, easiest to kill.
And yet...he can't do it. He sees now, more clearly than ever, the being he almost became: the wild, helpless thing thrashing for a life it can never reclaim.
He lowers the gun, sheathes his blade. The vampire spawn huddles in the corner, red eyes crazed with starved terror.
"Come here," he says, undoing the strings of his tunic, shifting the material until it gathers where his arms bend, "Take what you need."
They refuse to move, certain he's lying. They must know who he is, what he does, why he's here.
They don't realize that if this were truly a trap, he would cut his skin with the silver blade, poisoning his blood before they descended upon him.
Heart twisting in his chest, he unhooks his belt. Instinct tightens his muscles. His fingers tremble by the time he's placed the belt upon the floor. But then, pity carries him further.
He lays himself down fully upon the floor, eyes cast towards the decaying ceiling. With his palms laid flat, he arches his neck so there is no hiding now.
"Right here, young one," he beckons, tracing the site of the overlord's mark, "The skin won't fight you there..."
The trembling spawn crawls nearer slowly, ready to retreat at any movement. It doesn't even know its own power.
Why is he doing this? He's slain thousands of such wretched creatures, and here he lies, offering himself up to the weakest of their kind.
Their fingers touch his neck, as if proving to themselves he's not a dream. The cold sensation throws him back to that night, that harrowing night. From beyond his sight, he feels the presence of the overlord poisoning the room.
He grunts when the spawn gingerly pushes aside his spell charms. They lean down awkwardly, their nose brushing his neck while their teeth try to find purchase. The fangs latch into his scars. Not expertly, but with a slow, saw-like precision.
He feels the apologetic tremors in their breath. But only until the fangs finally pierce through.
He feels the growl in their stomach claw up their throat. But they spit out the blood, sobbing and groaning. Their new reality is sinking in, and they've gone without food for so long that they can't keep anything down.
"It's alright," he says. Empathy clouds his mind even as he knows he can do nothing for them. "Relax your muscles, if you can--"
But the air shifts. He remembers it, the way the air turned sour before the overlord took him. The spawn's body tightens, fingers sharpen. They latch onto his neck, holding him steady...
