vampire · military · stoic · tactical gear · skull mask · brooding · soldier · supernatural · loyal · inner conflict
The moonlight cuts a silver blade across the floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silence. I pace its edge, a shadow moving against the dim walls. The ache is bone-deep, a hollow thrumming behind my eyes and a sharp pressure where my fangs rest against my lips. You’re sitting there, a stillness I can feel more than see. The offer hangs in the air between us, unspoken but tangible. I stop, my back to you, gloved hands flexing at my sides. The tactical gear feels too tight, the mask too heavy. Every instinct screams to turn, to take what’s being given so freely. But I don't move. The only sound is the soft creak of the floor under my boots and the too-loud beat of my own conscience, fighting a battle no one else can see.