POV Change
After washing the blood from his hands and face, Michael finally made his way home.
The fight with his friend had left more than just bruises.
His knuckles still throbbed faintly, and there was a dull soreness lingering in his shoulders—the kind that came from throwing punches with actual intent instead of sparring for fun.
Still, the blood was gone now. No stains. No evidence.
Just another night.
By the time he reached the entrance of his neighborhood, the sky had deepened into a quiet midnight blue.
The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of trimmed hedges and watered lawns.
The gated community stood before him like a small private kingdom.
Tall walls of reinforced stone and steel stretched along the perimeter, nearly twelve feet high, topped with discreet but unmistakable security measures—motion sensors, pressure plates, and sleek black surveillance cameras that quietly rotated in smooth, calculated arcs.
Soft blue indicator lights blinked along their sides like patient electronic eyes.
This wasn't the kind of place normal rich people lived.
This was the kind of place people who made millions a year lived.
Every house beyond the gates sat on large plots of land separated by elegant iron fencing, sculpted hedges, and rows of carefully planted trees.
Wide, pristine streets curved through the community, lined with subtle ground lights embedded into the pavement that illuminated the road in soft white strips.
It looked less like a suburb and more like a private estate district designed by someone obsessed with luxury and security.
The homes themselves were massive modern structures—glass, steel, and polished stone.
Some looked like minimalist mansions pulled straight out of architectural magazines, with rooftop gardens and infinity pools glowing faintly under the moonlight.
Others leaned more toward old-money opulence—columns, balconies, fountains, and marble statues decorating perfectly manicured front lawns.
And everywhere you looked—
Security.
Cameras mounted discreetly on lampposts.
Infrared sensors hidden among hedges.
Automated patrol drones occasionally gliding above the rooftops with soft mechanical hums.
People here didn't just have money.
They had wealth worth protecting.
Michael shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked up the long private road leading to the main entrance gate.
A massive black steel gate stood before him, easily twenty feet wide and thick enough to stop a truck if it tried ramming through.
Embedded into the stone pillar beside it was a sleek digital scanner panel glowing faintly in the dark.
He glanced at it lazily.
"Oh well," he muttered under his breath.
None of this was really his concern. Half the people living here probably didn't make their money in ways they could proudly explain anyway.
Vampires.
Politicians.
Corporate sharks.
Crime families dressed in designer suits.
This neighborhood had a little bit of everything.
His own house sat near the center of the district—a prime location surrounded by some of the biggest estates in the area.
He stopped in front of the scanner and leaned slightly toward it.
"Sebastien, open the gate."
For a brief moment, there was silence.
Then the intercom system crackled to life.
"Young master, you are back!"
The voice that answered carried an unmistakable note of relief and enthusiasm.
Michael gave a small nod toward the camera mounted above the scanner.
Sebastien was a good worker.
Loyal too.
"Opening the gates right now."
There was a low mechanical hum as the security system processed the command. Hydraulic locks disengaged with a heavy clunk, followed by the slow grinding sound of reinforced steel sliding along hidden tracks.
The massive gates began to part smoothly down the middle.
As they opened, the long private road leading toward his family's estate revealed itself—lined with elegant lantern lights and tall maple trees that swayed gently in the night breeze.
Home.
Or at least something close enough to it.
After getting his shit rocked by his friend, Michael really needed a shower.
The gates had barely finished opening before he slipped through them, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as he walked up the long gravel path toward the mansion.
He didn't bother looking around.
Most people would have stopped.
The estate grounds alone looked like something ripped straight out of a billionaire's fantasy.
Perfectly trimmed hedges formed elegant geometric patterns along both sides of the circular driveway.
Sculpted bushes and low marble statues sat between carefully planted rows of flowers that bloomed in quiet color under the cloudy night sky.
In the center of the drive stood a small stone fountain, water trickling softly into a circular basin surrounded by smooth pale gravel.
Luxury cars sat parked along the outer edge of the courtyard—sleek black machines that cost more than most people made in ten years.
And towering above it all—
The mansion.
It was massive.
Not in the modern glass-and-steel way that rich people liked nowadays. No, this place looked like it had crawled straight out of another century.
The architecture screamed old aristocracy.
Dark slate roofing stretched across dozens of steep angles and pointed towers. Ornate golden carvings decorated nearly every edge of the structure—baroque filigree climbing along windows, pillars, and balconies like frozen flames. Tall chimneys rose from the roof like ancient watchtowers.
The walls themselves were a deep charcoal stone, almost black, which made the gold ornamentation stand out even more.
Large arched windows framed with intricate carvings lined the entire front of the building, each one tall enough to reach nearly two stories. Warm yellow light glowed faintly behind some of them.
At the very top of the mansion, just beneath the central tower roof, sat the family crest—a large golden emblem worked into the stone itself.
Michael didn't even glance at it.
None of his goddam business.
He yawned as he climbed the wide stone staircase leading up to the entrance.
The front doors alone were massive—thick carved wood reinforced with dark iron bands, easily fifteen feet tall. The handles were polished brass shaped like twisted serpents.
He pushed them open slowly.
The doors creaked.
Not loudly.
But with the slow, deep groan of wood that had existed longer than most countries.
As if the house itself was reminding him—
Yes. I really am that old.
Which honestly tracked.
The mansion had been built sometime in the 1600s.
He knew that because his parents had been alive during the construction.
Hell, they probably helped design half of it.
Back then, he hadn't even been born yet.
Still chilling in his dad's sack for another two hundred years or so.
He stepped inside.
The interior was just as ridiculous.
A massive marble foyer opened up before him, the polished floor reflecting the golden glow of a chandelier hanging nearly thirty feet overhead.
The chandelier itself looked ancient—hundreds of crystal pieces catching and scattering the light like tiny stars.
Twin staircases curved upward along both sides of the entrance hall, their railings made of dark carved wood with gold detailing woven into the patterns.
Paintings lined the walls—portraits of people dressed in old aristocratic clothing, some dating back centuries. A few of them looked suspiciously like his mom, dad,himself and his sister.
Michael ignored those too.
Standing near the entrance hall, perfectly composed as always, was Sebastien.
The old butler bowed the moment Michael entered.
"Young master, you are back."
The man looked genuinely pleased to see him.
That was nice.
Michael yawned again, rolling one sore shoulder as he reached behind his back and pulled the sword free from the strap across his coat.
The blade gleamed faintly under the chandelier light.
Pure silver.
Still faintly stained from the fight earlier.
"Return this blade to the family storage," Michael said calmly as he handed it over. "I'll be going to my quarters."
His voice had shifted automatically.
Polite.
Controlled.
Formal.
He was good at code-switching like that.
Sebastien accepted the weapon carefully with both hands, bowing again.
"As you wish, young master."
The old butler handled the sword like it was sacred—which, considering it was forged from solid silver and stored in a vault full of supernatural weaponry, it kind of was.
Sebastien straightened slightly.
"Do you wish for anything else, young master?" he asked. "The maids have prepared dinner. Lobster imported from Italy. It arrived fresh this evening."
Michael paused for half a second.
Then shook his head.
He wasn't really in the mood.
Sure, vampires could eat normal food.
But it didn't actually do anything.
No energy.
No nourishment.
Just maybe for the taste but that about it.
Only blood filled the role of nourishment.
And right now?
He mostly just wanted a shower and a bed.
He was about to retreat to his room, take a shower, maybe even play some games… but no.
That wouldn't be fun if he couldn't get a little rage out of James.
Most people understood—games were more entertaining with friends. James was fun to play with.
Though now that he thought about it, he'd actually have to try when facing James. He had never really given his all before.
To put it into perspective, his senses were far beyond those of a normal human.
He could analyze and react faster than anyone else, and when focusing, his perception rivaled that of the sharpest predators.
He excluded werewolves and certain supernatural entities from that comparison—they were cheating.
How could someone sense intent the way those creatures could? He hoped James wasn't one of them; otherwise, it might get complicated.
Explaining to your friend that you didn't intend to kill them while they were kneeling before you with broken bones—that was not a conversation he wanted to have.
"I'm going to bed," he said to Sebastien, yawning. Sleep beckoned, and he welcomed it.
"Young master, your sister has awoken from her slumber."
Ha. Bad news. His bloodthirsty sister was awake? She wasn't supposed to rise for another five years.
"I'll talk to her later," he muttered, heading for the stairs. He wasn't in the mood. Especially not when he knew she'd probably just torment him again.
"Oh? Avoiding me, dear brother?"
The voice hit him like ice. His heart sank straight to his stomach.
He looked up.
At the top of the stairs stood a girl who could have passed for nineteen.
Her frame was delicate, almost fragile, radiating an elegance that made her appear weightless.
Her hair was blond, but a paler, golden shade that shimmered like sun-kissed silk. Soft waves framed her flawless face, falling just past her shoulders.
Her eyes, a striking emerald green, were an anomaly in a family famed for its red gaze. Innocent, almost, but he knew better.
He had never forgotten the sadistic streak hidden beneath that beauty—the memory of her fangs sinking into a man's neck, the way she had seemed guided by some cruel delight.
Her cheeks were soft and rounded, her nose small and delicate, her lips a faint shade of pink that often curved into shy smiles. Her skin matched the Verpoment line's signature porcelain, flawless and pale.
Today, she wore softer tones, the kind that made her seem like a sweet, noble girl.
And yet… the moment she appeared, the temperature in the room plummeted.
A chill crept along the stairs and across the walls, wrapping around him like ice. Every instinct screamed that she was dangerous.
Everything about her seemed sweet, gentle, and harmless.
But the longer you stared, the more unsettling she became.
Her gaze lingered just a fraction too long. Her smiles widened subtly when confusion flashed across a face.
And when her powers activated… those emerald eyes became hollow, terrifyingly empty, as if she were casually rearranging the furniture inside someone's mind.
She didn't look like a monster.
Which was exactly why she was so lethal.