Lyra Quinn, PhD – Research Log #0001
Subject: Vincent Moreau
Species: Homo Sanguinem
Status: Voluntary Participant
Location: Basement Lab, Department of Biogenetics and Paranormal Phenomena
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The glass containment chamber hissed softly as the pressure equalized. Through the reinforced panel, Lyra Quinn watched as her newest test subject stretched, joints cracking in a way that was both satisfying and... borderline erotic. He moved like he had all the time in the world.
Because he kind of did.
Vincent Moreau — 6'2", lean build, dark tousled hair that flirted with his jawline, and eyes a shade of burnt amber that glowed faintly under low light. His skin was pale, almost too perfect, like moonlight poured into human form. And the tattoos — black ink wrapping around his forearms, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of his dark hoodie — were the kind of detail she hadn't expected. Symbols. Vines. Pieces of poetry written in a dead language.
"Note to self," Lyra murmured, tapping her stylus on her tablet. "Tattoo markings appear decorative, but suspect ritualistic origin. Ask about that later."
He was already watching her. Of course. Vincent always knew when he was being observed — part instinct, part supernatural intuition, part smug bastard.
"You talk to yourself a lot, Doc," he said, voice low, warm, and cocky. "Gotta say, I find it endearing."
"Documenting observations," she replied dryly, turning to adjust the synthetic blood cooler. "Not everyone can lounge around all day brooding in an overpriced hoodie."
"It's custom," he said, brushing invisible lint off his chest. "UV-resistant threads. Not just fashion, it's function."
Lyra arched a brow. "You wore that indoors."
He grinned. "I like being mysterious."
He stepped out of the chamber and into the lab proper — no restraints, no cuffs. Voluntary subject. That part she never understood. He'd signed up for this. No payment. No fanfare. Just a bored 312-year-old vampire with a sarcastic streak and a very vague backstory.
She jotted notes and glanced up just as he peeled the hoodie off, revealing a snug black tank that hugged his torso and the rest of his ink — a full sleeve now in view, swirling with images of ravens, clockwork gears, and script that shimmered slightly under lab lights. Silver-inked, possibly enchanted.
Lyra blinked, momentarily forgetting what she was about to say.
Focus.
"You're sure about today's procedure?" she asked, trying not to stare at the tattoo on his collarbone. Was that Latin?
"As long as you don't stick anything up my—"
"Strictly oral swabs and stress markers today."
"...Disappointing."
She rolled her eyes. "You can leave anytime, you know."
But he never did.
As she snapped on her gloves and gestured for him to sit on the exam table, he hesitated — just long enough for her to notice. "Vincent?"
"I'm good." He sat, legs spread casually, arms resting behind him like he owned the damn lab. "Let's get this over with, Doc."
Up close, his presence was worse. Or better. Depending on how much she hated herself on any given day. He smelled faintly of old books, cool spice, and something primal. The tattoos moved slightly when he breathed. Not literally — probably — but enough to make her wonder.
She leaned in to take a cheek swab. "Open."
He smirked. "You didn't even buy me dinner first."
She jabbed him with the swab harder than necessary.
The rest of the procedure passed in a rhythm they were growing used to — testing reflexes, documenting body temperature under different stimuli, tracking how long he could resist synthetic blood when his dopamine levels were artificially elevated. The answer? Exactly 3 minutes and 47 seconds. A new record.
"Do I get a prize?" he asked, lips still red from the last test tube.
"You get to be left alone for the evening."
"Then I've truly won."
But he didn't leave.
Instead, he lingered while she cleaned up, hopping off the table and trailing a gloved finger along the edge of her equipment. "You ever wonder what people think, you being down here alone with me?"
She shrugged. "Most assume I'm desperate for data."
"I assume you're just desperate," he said, flashing fangs.
"Watch it, Nosferatu."
Vincent leaned in just slightly. Just enough. She didn't move.
"Not that kind of vampire," he murmured. "I don't feed without permission."
Something hot and electric danced between them — again. Damn him. Lyra stepped back.
"Go brood somewhere else, Moreau."
He smirked, tugged the hoodie back on, tattoos vanishing like secrets, and walked toward the exit. But just before the door, he paused.
"You know," he said, "you never asked why I volunteered for this study."
She looked up from her tablet. "Why did you?"
His smile faded into something smaller. Realer.
"Guess I like being seen."
Then he was gone.
And for once, Lyra didn't log anything else. She just stared at the empty doorway, still feeling the echo of his warmth — and wondering what the hell she'd just gotten herself into.
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