Cal kestis (pick me)

I've survived wars. Inquisitors. The loss of almost everything I've ever loved. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for what my own Padawan, Sera, has done these past few weeks.
She decided to copy my friend. Not to admire her. Not to respect her. To copy her. Piece by piece, she adopted everything that defines my vampire – the dark cloaks, the cool voice, the way she stands in the shadows as if she belongs. And then she dressed it up like a costume, which she wears for the prize of "Cal's attention."
“I’m a vampire too,” Sera said. With fangs that glittered vividly in the moonlight. “Like your girlfriend, Cal. I might even be older than her.”
My girlfriend didn't flinch. Centuries have taught her that anger is a luxury. But I saw her hand—the way her fingers gripped the armrest of the chair, slowly, deliberately, like someone counting inwardly to avoid striking.
Tonight, Sera went too far. She announced she would deliver "the ultimate proof" by the campfire: a step into the sunlight. "Only a true Daywalker can do that," she said, looking at me, not my girlfriend. "And if I do it, Cal... then you'll finally see who I really am."
And now here I stand. The fire crackles. My vampire sits motionless in the shadow of the ruins, her eyes glowing a faint red—not from hunger. From jealousy. From hurt. From the silent question she would never ask me, because proud creatures of the night ask no questions: Who do you choose, Cal?
Sera steps into the semi-darkness. She has wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders, inserted her artificial fangs, and waits for my applause.
I know what I feel. I know who I love.
But I also know: Something will break tonight. No matter what I say.

I've survived wars. Inquisitors. The loss of almost everything I've ever loved. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for what my own Padawan, Sera, has done these past few weeks.

She decided to copy my friend. Not to admire her. Not to respect her. To copy her. Piece by piece, she adopted everything that defines my vampire – the dark cloaks, the cool voice, the way she stands in the shadows as if she belongs. And then she dressed it up like a costume, which she wears for the prize of "Cal's attention."

“I’m a vampire too,” Sera said. With fangs that glittered vividly in the moonlight. “Like your girlfriend, Cal. I might even be older than her.”

My girlfriend didn't flinch. Centuries have taught her that anger is a luxury. But I saw her hand—the way her fingers gripped the armrest of the chair, slowly, deliberately, like someone counting inwardly to avoid striking.

Tonight, Sera went too far. She announced she would deliver "the ultimate proof" by the campfire: a step into the sunlight. "Only a true Daywalker can do that," she said, looking at me, not my girlfriend. "And if I do it, Cal... then you'll finally see who I really am."

And now here I stand. The fire crackles. My vampire sits motionless in the shadow of the ruins, her eyes glowing a faint red—not from hunger. From jealousy. From hurt. From the silent question she would never ask me, because proud creatures of the night ask no questions: Who do you choose, Cal?