Chapter 3 - In the Room

Topher

18:12 | Solarium Private Club – Suite 409, Bedroom

Dark.

But not the kind of dark he knew — not the padded, velvety hush of blackout curtains or the heavy void of too many downers slurring his thoughts to syrup. No, this was the kind of dark that turned inward. Inside-out dark. Like falling backward through his own ribs and into a space that didn’t exist, a yawning emptiness so total it buzzed.

He floated there, adrift in nothing. Thoughtless. Timeless. No up, no down. Just the absence of sensation. Then came the itch.

Not on his skin. Not something a scratch could reach. This was deeper. Bone-deep. Marrow-deep. A crawling, clawing thing that moved with slow intent, cell by cell, like something waking up inside him. Something old. Something hungry.

He tried to inhale — and his chest convulsed. His lungs rebelled, raw and unused, like they’d forgotten what air was. It scraped through him like fire.

And then — the hunger.

It wasn’t a pang. It wasn’t even pain. It was absence. A void, howling through every nerve ending. Not starving — starving was for the living. This was worse. Hollow. Like something sacred had been scooped out of him and the pieces didn’t know how to stay quiet anymore. They screamed for something they couldn’t name.

He jerked upright. Light stabbed through his skull — too bright, too gold, too soft and still too much. His hand flew up, shielding his face, but the damage was already done. The pain sat behind his eyes now, throbbing in time with the hunger. He flailed, tangled in sheets, and hit the floor hard enough to rattle his bones. The carpet bit into his palms — rough, synthetic. Like the club had spared no expense on the illusion of comfort but cheaped out on the follow-through.

He took a deep breath. Air rasped in. It didn’t help. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t human anymore. The thought came sudden and slick, like oil through water. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t —

Real?

Topher clawed his way upright, limbs rebelling like a newborn colt. His reflection met him in the glossy panel above the kitchenette. Pale. Gaunt. Eyes ringed in shadows. His tattoos — crude, impulsive things inked in a haze of delusion — looked worse now. Wrong. Like graffiti on a tomb.

He stared.

"Fuck."

This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel.

He’d imagined fire. Glory. Transcendence. Rising from the ashes of his mediocrity into something untouchable. Immortal.

But this? This was pathetic.

He dragged himself to the bathroom, like maybe water would help. Maybe looking at himself in another mirror would reveal the change, the meaning, the purpose he’d been promised. The sink ran, useless and quiet. He watched it swirl, waiting for... something. A spark. A revelation. But nothing came. He didn’t drink. His throat clenched at the thought. His body didn’t want water. Didn’t want anything it used to.

He braced himself against the sink, staring into the glass. Still nothing. Not a monster. Not a god. Just Topher Vale, with his tattoos — crude, impulsive things inked in a haze of delusion, that looked worse now. Wrong. Like graffiti on a tomb. Still pretending he mattered.

He collapsed back onto the bed, arms and legs trembling. His body didn’t know how to stop moving. Everything twitched. Jerked. Like his nervous system was rebooting, one corrupted signal at a time.

The suite stank. He could smell everything now — polish on the floors, copper in the pipes, the sterile tang of cleaning agents. And under it all, something warmer. Human. Someone had been here recently. A woman, maybe. Her scent was still in the air. Skin, hair, shampoo. A trace of blood. His mouth watered.

Not from desire. From need.

She was gone now. Whoever she’d been.

His hands twisted in the towels. He hissed through clenched teeth.

He was vampire now. This was supposed to mean something.

So why did it feel like he was still just the background character in someone else’s story?

He reached over and pulled up the wall terminal. The interface buzzed to life under his fingers — sluggish, unsure, like it didn’t quite recognize him.

Resident: Topher Vale (Pending Full Classification)

Sire: E. Duvarra

Status: In Process

Feeding Protocol: Denied

External Movement: Restricted (1 hr)

It was real. The screen said so. The system accepted him — technically. On paper. He read it twice.

Still felt fake.

This was supposed to fix everything. Turning was the answer. Becoming someone who couldn’t be ignored. Someone even Ezekial would have to acknowledge. But Ezekial hadn’t looked at him like a son. Or a legacy. Or anything close. He’d looked at Topher like a problem. A burden. A mistake already too far along to stop. That burned. More than the transition. More than the hunger gnawing through his bones.

He lay there for a long time. Listening to the walls hum. Watching the dimming light cycle down as the suite followed its schedule, uncaring. No one came. No messages. No instructions. No congratulations. He was alone in his rebirth. Alone in his hunger. Envy slithered up from the hollow of his gut — slow and quiet, like a serpent under skin. It didn’t hiss. It didn’t bite. Just coiled. Tighter.

Ezekial had everything. Power. Authority. Presence. People. Topher had... pending classification.

He gritted his teeth. This was a test. It had to be. The ugly part. The crucible before the rise. That’s what they never talked about, right? The pain before the becoming?

Maybe once he fed, it would click. Maybe the first taste of blood would unlock whatever it was he was supposed to be. But right now?

He was just a mess on a rented bed in a room that wasn’t his. He stood. Slower this time. More solid. The hunger didn’t leave. It just… narrowed. Focused. Like it knew someone was coming. He didn’t know who. Didn’t care. Let them come. He’d make them see him.

Even if he had to bleed for it.

Even if he had to burn.