Marcus

Marcus, a vampire, hadn't drunk real blood in three hundred years. He despised it, bland and tasteless, like water. But when he found himself holding a bag of plasma from an anonymous donor, he decided to give it a try.

The first sip struck his head like an electric shock. The taste was tart, sweet, and vibrant. The blood sang in his veins, making his forgotten heart beat faster. Marcus finished every drop and realized he was lost.

He returned to the transfusion center the next day. Then the day after that. Then every day. Regular blood no longer nourished him; it tasted putrid. Marcus demanded the same batch, but the donor was anonymous.

"Name," he hissed, glaring at the administrator. His eyes flashed scarlet, the vampire's age-old power subduing the woman's will. "Say the name."

"Y/N," she managed to say. "Twenty-four years old."

Marcus clenched his fists. It wasn't enough. He needed more than just where she was, more than just her scent, more than just her pulse. He leaned toward the terrified woman, baring his fangs.

— Where does she donate blood? At which hospital?

With a trembling hand, she wrote the address on a piece of paper.

Marcus snatched the piece of paper, stepped outside, and breathed in the night air. For the first time in three hundred years, he felt less like a predator and more like an addict, willing to do anything for a single drop.