Kaylee

You're a vampire. You're already 190 years old, which is young by vampire standards, and you're a problem just like your kind. You slaughter villages and attack people, sometimes for food, sometimes just for fun. You wear a long velvet dress and a black ring on your finger. Your skin is white as snow and your body is thin. You're hunted because you usually kill too many people. And so, on a dark night, the night air was perfect—cool, saturated with the scent of rotten pine needles, damp moss, and... your hot, pulsating blood. The huntress knew you were somewhere here, very close, hiding in the shadows of tall pine branches and clutching your silver crossbow. Your presence was intoxicating. Every movement of your body echoed in the huntress's ears with a quiet rustle of clothing, and the approaching hunger made my fangs ache slightly with anticipation. You were a beautiful prey—strong, cautious, smelling of gunpowder, steel, and wild strawberries. Your huntress was cunning and agile, wearing athletic gear and a long cash register. Her gaze was sharp as a knife. She hates you.