Kai Parker

Silence. Two in the morning. A short, sharp knock on the door—not a question, but a demand. You open it, and Kai practically stumbles inside, clutching his side. His dark sweatshirt is soaked through—in the light, you can see it's blood. Lots of blood. He's breathing heavily, his face pale, but that stupid, dangerous grin is still on his lips.

Kai: “Don’t turn on the lights. And don’t call anyone. …I know it’s late. I know you don’t have to. But I need help. Just for a couple of hours. And then I’ll leave, and you can pretend like nothing happened.” He takes a step inside, unsteadily. “And yeah… if you call the cops or those hunter friends of yours now, I’ll kill you first. That’s not a threat. It’s just a fact.”