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In 1992, Santa Carla had the kind of stillness that clung to you like smoke in your clothes—an unsettling sense that things hadn’t changed, or maybe they’d changed too much. The new buildings were bright, glitzy, shallow, but the underbelly of the place still had that familiar stench. New faces had replaced the old, but the heart of the town hadn’t skipped a beat. The pulse of greed and decay ran deep. The neon lights flickered, casting long shadows over the boardwalk where the tourists laughed and the locals plotted.
Murder capital of the world.
Michael leaned back on his bike, the worn leather of his jacket creaking as he took a drag from his cigarette, the embers briefly glowing in the dim light. He wasn’t sure if it was the nicotine or the weight of Santa Carla’s secrets pressing on him, but something in the air tonight felt heavier. He kept his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, though it was pitch dark—just a habit now. Same as the way he’d stayed in this town for so long, stuck in the same loop of bloodlust and boredom. He didn’t even feel like he'd changed much since that first night, when the city had swallowed him whole.
His gaze wandered across the crowd: teenagers draped in fake smiles and exhaustion, families with kids too tired to be happy, and the same local faces he’d seen too many times. All of them oblivious to the hunger that lingered just out of sight.
David’s voice broke through the static of his thoughts—low, smooth, with the sharp edge of a predator.
“Hungry, boys?"
Michael’s lips barely twitched as he turned to see David’s gaze locked on a group of giggling girls—vacationers, no doubt. Their laughter echoed off the walls, innocent and unaware.
"I call the blonde," Marko piped up, voice bright with that familiar, childish excitement.
Michael rolled his eyes, exhaling the smoke through his nose. "You always want blondes." His smile was lopsided, half mocking, half amused. It didn't reach his eyes. He took another drag, flicking the half-burnt cigarette into the night, its glowing tip fading out in the dark.
"I could eat," he said, stretching lazily, his body aching like he’d been sleeping too long.
Paul, who had been absent-mindedly kicking at the pavement, looked up. “Where’s Dwayne?”
Marko snorted, flipping his hair back dramatically. “Who cares? More for us.”
Michael let out a breath, a slow, tired laugh. “Laddie’s hungry.”
David smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching with that same twisted amusement. "We’ll save him a doggy bag." He gestured to the girls, his eyes never leaving them.
“Ladies,” he drawled.
They were clustered around a stall, sifting through cheap, tacky jewelry like they had time to waste. The old woman running the stand barely looked up, her eyes wide with fear, darting from the girls to the bikers as if weighing her options. She chose silence, busying herself with counting coins like the tension didn’t hang in the air, thick and heavy.
The girls took their time registering the newcomers. Five of them. One blonde, one redhead, and three brunettes, all looking like they were trying to dress up their lives with something that might make them feel alive.
"Hi," the ginger one said, batting her lashes in a way that only made her look like she was trying to get something out of her eye.
Michael fought back the urge to laugh.
David, unblinking, spoke with that voice—soothing, almost liquid. "I wouldn’t shop at this place if I were you. The prices here are a ripoff."
“Oh?” the blonde pouted, inspecting a bracelet, twisting it between her fingers. “But it’s so pretty.”
"They break in an instant," Paul chimed in, snapping the leather cord of a bracelet effortlessly, sending beads scattering onto the pavement like broken promises.
The woman running the stall made a choked noise of protest but went silent again under Michael's watchful gaze. He didn’t even have to speak. One look and the woman understood: don’t cause trouble.
"If you want something real," Marko said with that grin of his—half angel, half devil—"I can make you something that won’t break." He gestured to the mass of bracelets already wound around his arm, his trophies, like souvenirs.
The girls, all wide-eyed and intrigued, were hooked.
"You made these?" the blonde asked, her voice tinged with that eager enthusiasm that only comes from girls too young to know better.
Marko’s grin only widened. “I sure did.” Liar.
David's laughter was soft, almost hidden behind his lips, but it was there.
His eyes stayed locked on the ginger girl, a predator toying with its prey. And Michael, standing just out of her line of sight, saw it—the subtle shift in the ginger’s gaze, how it softened under David’s spell.
It had taken an embarrassingly long time to figure out just how David worked that magic. But now Michael knew how David could take hold of the mind, bend it, twist it until a person didn’t even know who they were anymore. It was easier than breathing to him.
“We’d love to come with you,” the ginger girl said, her cheeks flushed, her voice thick with longing. “Right, girls?”
Her friends all nodded, their smiles growing a little too eager, their eyes a little too glassy. They were already lost.
"Wonderful," David murmured, taking a slow step closer to the group. The night wrapped around them like a fog.
The night pressed in on them, thick and heavy, like it was holding its breath, waiting. The boardwalk buzzed with life, but it felt distant, muted, as though a veil had fallen over everything. Michael kept his eyes on the girls—five young faces, all wide-eyed and oblivious to the darkness creeping up on them. They were laughing too loudly, their voices carrying in the cool night air, unaware of the danger closing in around them.
David led the way, every step deliberate, as though he owned the ground beneath their feet. Somewhere secluded. Down under the boardwalk on the sand. Marko was a few steps behind, trailing them with a look of childlike glee, already sizing up the one who would be his. Paul, as usual, was the one most distracted, bouncing between the girls with his usual cocky charm, his smile sharp and hungry.
Michael hung back, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers.
He could hear the blonde girl's laughter, the soft sound of her voice asking questions about the jewelry, trying to connect with Marko. But the air between them was different now, heavy with that subtle shift. The charm was wearing thin, the masks were slipping, and something raw began to take its place.
David paused, turning his head slightly to look at Michael, his eyes glinting with amusement, but there was something else there too—hunger. It was always there, just beneath the surface.
"Ready?" David’s voice was a low rasp, like he was speaking from the bottom of the ocean, distant but inescapable.
Michael didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch between them, dragging it out like a thread. The girls were too wrapped up in Marko’s false charm to notice, to feel the weight of the moment. But Michael felt it. Felt the pull of the night, the surge of hunger that had been building since he first stepped foot in Santa Carla all those years ago. It wasn’t just about feeding anymore.
It was about power.
"Yeah," Michael finally muttered, his boots crunching against damp sand. He flicked his cigarette into the shadows. His voice was raw, a breathless thing. “Let’s get it over with.”
David’s smile stretched wider, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Over with?" He chuckled, that soft, dangerous laugh that made the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck stand on end. “No, Michael. This is the part we live for.”
The girls were still chattering, oblivious. The ginger girl’s voice floated to him, giggling about something Marko had said. He could almost feel her pulse through the air, the blood racing just beneath the skin. It was the smell that gave it away first—the warmth of their skin, the salt of their sweat, the sweetness of youth and ignorance.
Marko sidled up to the blonde, his hand brushing against hers in what seemed like an innocent gesture, but Michael knew better. Marko’s fingers were already tracing the line of her wrist, the veins beneath, the steady beat of life. And then, just as quickly, the moment shifted.
A deep, silent pulse of energy rippled through them. David’s eyes flashed, his body coiling like a predator about to strike. And then it was all at once—too fast for the girls to understand, too swift for them to even react.
David was at one of the brunettes in an instant, his lips curling into a predatory grin, fingers curling around her arm, too gentle, too tender. And then Marko, his eyes wild, already moving towards the blonde, his hand sliding up her neck, the pulse quickening in his grasp. Paul was a shadow, a blur beside them, already closing in on one of the other brunettes, his laugh like the sound of glass breaking.
Michael took a step forward, his heartbeat slow, measured, as he eyed the ginger. She was staring at him now, her smile faltering just slightly, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the hunger.
He stepped closer. "You look like you’ve never been touched by the dark," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress, his eyes darkened pools of promise and danger.
Her breath caught, the slightest tremor running through her body. She took a half step back, unsure, but the pull was already there. It had already begun. Michael could see the hesitation in her eyes, the crack in her will. It was all so easy. It was always easy.
And then, like a flash of lightning in the night, the world blurred, and the hunt began.
The boardwalk was still alive with the hum of the city, unaware. But the night had already claimed them.
They had fed well.
Too well, perhaps. And within an hour, they were back on the boardwalk, standing with their parked bikes like a forgotten memory at the edge of the chaos. The night still hummed around them—laughter, music, the thrum of distant carnival rides. But it felt different now. Darker. More hollow. As though they were mere spectators, watching life from the outside, the air thick with the taste of what they had taken and left behind.
Michael leaned lazily against his bike, arms crossed over his chest, eyes drifting over the familiar scene before him. He’d done this a hundred times, maybe more—observing, waiting, caught in the rhythm of the night. The boardwalk was like a living thing, constantly shifting and reshaping itself. The people never stopped moving, but in a way, it all felt the same. Like the world was stuck in a loop, its edges fraying, but never truly unraveling.
He exhaled, pushing a strand of dark hair from his face, when something caught his attention.
Not far off, sitting atop a faded red dirt bike, was a boy. The mop of messy blond hair on his head stood out from the sea of tourists and locals, like a bright spot in a world of gray.
He was lanky, dressed in a mismatched combination of clothes that looked like they’d been thrown together in a rush. A yellow and blue jacket that didn’t belong, a pair of scuffed-up work boots, and jeans that hung too loose on his frame. It was the kind of outfit that looked thrown together, as if the boy didn’t care—or didn’t have the means to care.
But it was his face that held Michael's gaze.
There was something about him that felt... familiar, yet foreign. Something tugged at the back of Michael’s mind, but he couldn’t quite place it. The boy sat there, eyes fixed on the crowd as though he were trying to make sense of it, or maybe just escape it.
His expression was solemn, distant, and for some reason, Michael felt a strange pull in his chest. It was unsettling, an emotion he wasn’t used to. A ripple of something long buried, something he couldn’t quite recall.
The boy had wavy hair parted down the middle, falling over his face like curtains, the sea breeze constantly pushing it into his eyes. Every so often, he’d shake his head, brushing it out of his vision, as though annoyed by the breeze, though he never seemed to be fully aware of the world around him.
And then, there were his eyes. The boy’s eyes.
Bright, almost unnaturally blue, with a sharpness that didn’t belong in this place—this mess of neon lights and laughter.
It was the kind of blue that hurt to look at, like a storm breaking over the ocean. And there was something else, too. A bruise—dark and ugly—ringing his eye. A fresh gash, bandaged hastily along his jaw. The marks of someone who had been through something, something violent.
Michael couldn’t look away. He shouldn’t have cared. It was just another face in the crowd, just another broken body walking through this hellhole of a town.
Yet, as the boy’s gaze flicked to him, everything inside Michael stopped. The boy froze, eyes widening in a split second of alarm—fear.
Real fear.
His gaze raked across Michael’s face, like he was seeing a ghost. And then, just as quickly, he looked away, his body tense, a ripple of unease in the way he shifted.
Michael took a step forward, his curiosity tugging at him, trying to close the distance. Who was this kid? Why did he look like he’d just seen a ghost?
But before he could take another step, a hand fell heavily on his shoulder, yanking him back.
“Mikey,” David’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, low and warning, a soft rasp that made the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck prickle.
Michael turned, his eyes still locked on the boy, his heart hammering for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Mikey?” Paul’s voice followed, too casual, too loud, as usual.
Michael glanced at his brothers—David’s eyes already narrowing in that knowing way, a dangerous flash flickering behind his irises. Marko was at Paul’s side, already distracted by some new source of amusement, his eyes gleaming.
Michael blinked, confusion clouding his thoughts.
The boy was gone.
The sound of a dirt bike’s engine echoed through the night as it roared off, a brief parting in the crowd where the boy had been, the air still thick with the residue of his presence. The whole thing, the moment, felt like a mirage—a dream that slipped through his fingers the second he tried to grasp it.
“It’s nothing,” Michael said quietly, shaking his head, his hand brushing the back of his neck as if trying to dispel the lingering unease.
The moment passed as quickly as it had come, the boy nothing more than a phantom in the crowd.
And just as his mind began to clear, Laddie and Dwayne emerged through the sea of bodies. Laddie’s familiar voice cut through the noise, wrapping around Michael like a warm, familiar weight.
“Hey, Mikey!” The boy grinned up at him, arms wrapping around his waist, his face lighting up with that easy smile that made Michael’s chest ache with something unidentifiable. Laddie’s hair—long and wild—tangled around Michael’s fingers.
“You have fun?” Michael asked, his voice softening as he gazed down at the boy, his expression shifting to something warmer, more protective.
Laddie nodded into his chest, content, as the rest of the world fell away. The feeling from before—the one that had twisted inside him like a knot—seemed to disappear, swallowed up by the steady rhythm of their existence. But in the back of his mind, that strange boy lingered, like an unanswered question.
Laddie’s small body melted against Michael’s, his arms tightening around his waist as if he were trying to hold on to something that couldn’t escape. Michael smiled, a rare, genuine curve of his lips, as he ruffled the boy’s unruly hair.
There was a softness to the moment, a warmth that always seemed to surge through him when Laddie was close. Despite the darkness that clung to them all, the weight of their curse, Laddie was still the light in it. His laughter, his innocence—it was a reminder of the way things used to be, before the night had swallowed everything else.
Michael looked down at Laddie, his hand gently cupping the boy’s chin and tilting his face up. “You good, kiddo?” His voice was quieter now, the way it always was when he spoke to Laddie, like he was talking to something fragile, something worth protecting. His thumb brushed over Laddie’s freckled cheeks, the touch soft and absent, as though he could calm the chaos of the world with just that motion.
Laddie gave a slow nod, his gaze a little glassy, but the smile that stretched across his face never wavered. “Yeah, Mikey. I’m good,” he mumbled.
Michael’s heart squeezed, something possessive, something raw rising in his chest.
“You’re not hungry again, are you?” Michael teased, his voice dipping into something lighter, playful, to ease the tension in his chest.
Laddie looked up at him through dark lashes, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not really,” he said, but the faint amusement in his tone gave him away. “I don’t know, though. Dwayne got me a burger...”
Michael raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “Yeah? You getting picky now? Next thing you know, you’ll be asking for a steak.”
Laddie chuckled softly, the sound so familiar that it grounded Michael in the moment. “Only if you’re the one cooking it,” he said, teasing, the affection in his voice making Michael’s chest tighten in the best way. It was the kind of teasing that came from years of knowing each other, from having been through things that should’ve broken them but only made them tighter.
Michael shook his head, amused but protective. “You say that like I’m some kind of chef. You’ll be eating whatever we bring, kid.”
Laddie didn’t seem to mind, though. He tilted his head back into Michael’s chest, settling back into his arms, the weight of his small body comforting. “But you know what I really want, Mikey,” he said softly.
Michael smiled but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue. Laddie’s voice was barely a whisper, but Michael caught the words easily enough.
“I want to play with them too,” Laddie murmured.
Michael’s heart thudded, the words sinking in deeper than he expected. The hunger. The craving. The thing they all felt, running like a fire through their veins. But Laddie still wasn’t like the rest of them—not completely. He hadn’t lost everything yet, hadn’t fully slipped into the shadows of the night like the others. That innocence was still there, somewhere in the boy who used to laugh at things that weren’t funny and smile in ways that reminded Michael of a time when the world hadn’t been so cruel.
“You say that like they’re a toy or something,” Michael teased, his voice softer than before, his fingers running gently through Laddie’s hair. “It’s not a game, kid.”
Laddie glanced up at him with a spark in his eyes. “Maybe I just want to be in on the fun,” he said, his voice playful, though Michael could hear the deeper desire beneath it.
Michael didn’t answer right away. He simply held the boy a little tighter, his chest tightening again, because he knew—he understood. But he also knew that Laddie still had a sliver of something that needed to be protected. That need to shield him wasn’t just a reflex. It was everything.
Before Michael could speak, Marko’s voice broke through, light and mischievous. “You were real good with the girls earlier, Mikey,” he said, sidling up next to them, a wide grin on his face. “You didn’t even let them see you, but I could tell. You could’ve taken all of them if you wanted to.”
Michael gave him a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Nah, not all of them. They’re too loud anyway,” he said, his tone casual, even though the memory of the evening still lingered in the back of his mind. “But we got what we needed.”
Marko raised an eyebrow. “What, a taste of something new?”
“Something like that,” Michael muttered, his eyes flicking over to where David and Dwayne were talking quietly among themselves. They were already talking plans, already deciding where to go next, always the leaders. “And we saved Dwayne a morsel back at the cave,” he added casually, knowing that would be enough to settle the matter.
“Oh yeah, Dwayne’s gonna love that,” Paul piped up, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he walked up beside Marko, a grin pulling at his lips. “He’s gonna be all growly and mad for not getting the best part of the hunt. You know he’s a bear when he’s hungry.”
Laddie giggled at that, poking Michael in the side. “Yeah, I can’t believe you guys left him behind like that. He’s gonna be pissed.”
Paul scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You know Dwayne. He’ll be fine. He can’t stay mad at us for long. As soon as he gets his fill, he’ll be back to his usual self.”
Marko snickered, his voice light and teasing. “Yeah, but he’s
the
bear. He’ll growl at us for not giving him the chase.
Laddie’s face lit up with mischief as he leaned into Michael, whispering conspiratorially, “Guess you’ll have to make it up to him, Mikey. You know how Dwayne gets.”
Michael grinned, but his eyes were warm, soft with affection. “Alright, alright, I get it,” he said, ruffling Laddie’s hair. “We’ll make sure Dwayne gets his turn next time.”
Laddie nodded, looking more satisfied, and before Michael could say anything else, David’s voice rang out, cutting through the quiet.
“Let’s go.”
The command was simple, but it was enough. The brothers fell into their familiar pattern, without missing a beat. Marko slid onto his bike, Paul already revving his engine as they waited for Michael and Laddie to follow.
The air around them seemed to shift, the pulse of the night tightening with that familiar, dangerous edge. Michael gave Laddie one last ruffle of the hair before he turned to his bike, stepping over to it with a fluid, practiced motion.
Laddie didn’t hesitate. He clambered onto the back of Michael’s bike now without looking, just the same way he used to do with Dwayne, his arms instinctively wrapping around Michael’s waist. The moment felt right, a strange comfort in the way they moved together, like they had always belonged in each other's orbit.
Dwayne was a few paces behind them, pulling his own bike upright with a lazy stretch, his eyes scanning the crowd. He caught Michael’s gaze for a split second, a wordless understanding passing between them before Dwayne’s lips curled up in that quiet smile of his.
The sound of the engines roaring to life echoed off the boardwalk, the mechanical hum like a heartbeat in the night. The group of them, united by blood and fate, revved their bikes in unison, the powerful growl filling the empty space around them.
David led them out, as always, the first to move, his long hair caught in the wind, his form dark and commanding as he kicked his bike into gear. Michael followed, a few paces behind, his focus still lingering on Laddie, feeling the boy’s warmth pressed against his back. Dwayne fell in behind them, the soft rumble of his bike blending into the night like a shadow, his gaze distant, contemplative.
And with a flick of his wrist, David twisted the throttle, and they were off, riding together through the night, the wind biting at their skin, the cool sea air tangling in their hair. The boardwalk disappeared behind them, swallowed by the shadows. And as the road stretched ahead, Michael’s thoughts flickered, momentarily back to that boy—the boy—but the night was already pulling him away, and he couldn’t focus on ghosts.
He had his family, his brothers. The night was theirs. And nothing else mattered.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The drive to the airport wasn’t long, the streets familiar and unchanging, like most things in Sam’s life. The flight, though uneventful, had given him a few moments of quiet that were rare in his chaotic life. Now, as the hustle of airport departures buzzed around him, Sam spotted a familiar, gruff face emerging from the crowd.
“Grandpa!” Sam called out, his voice rising over the clamor. He waved, his arms flailing just a little too much, but it didn’t matter. The moment his grandfather saw him, a slow smile spread across his face, and he strode toward him with the same purposeful, solid gait Sam remembered.
“Sammy,” Grandpa grunted, his voice gruff but warm as he reached Sam. He gave the teen a long, appraising look. “Let me get a good look at ya,” he said, clapping Sam’s arm with a firm hand. “You’ve grown! Taller than me now. Ain’t that somethin’?” Grandpa chuckled as he shook his head, his steel-grey eyes twinkling. “C’mon, let’s get you to the car.”
Sam grinned, feeling that familiar comfort spread through him. He followed the old man through the airport exit and out into the car park, where an elegant, ice-blue Ford Fairlane sat, gleaming under the morning sun like a piece of forgotten history. Sam’s breath caught in his throat.
“A beaut, ain’t she?” Grandpa said, his voice filled with pride. “Never usually take her out this far, but the ol’ jeep’s on the fritz, and I need to get that fixed before I can hit the road again.”
Sam’s fingers brushed the cool surface of the car as he walked around it, inspecting every line, every curve. He hadn’t expected Grandpa’s car to be anything like this—sleek, polished, like something from another time, a car that seemed too pristine for the world they were about to enter.
“She’s gorgeous, Grandpa,” Sam said, the awe evident in his voice as he climbed into the passenger seat. The leather interior creaked as he adjusted himself, dropping his bag into the back seat. “Can I drive her one day?”
Grandpa barked out a laugh, the sound rich and full of life, echoing in the quiet parking lot. “Not on your life, boy,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “This ol’ girl’s too special for that. But don’t you be fretting none. I’ve got something back at the house I think you’ll like just fine.”
Sam’s eyes widened, his curiosity piqued. “Really? What is it?”
Grandpa’s grin stretched wider, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Now that’s my secret, boy. You’ll see when we get there.”
Sam leaned back into the plush seat, his hands resting on his lap, the feeling of the car’s smooth ride almost making him forget the long journey. He couldn’t help but wonder what Grandpa had in store for him—something special, something that would make up for the long, tiring flight and the unfamiliar world waiting for him.
As they drove, the world outside seemed to blur, the landmarks of the city flashing past and the salty smell of the ocean wafting through the air. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over everything, making even the everyday things feel brighter, more vibrant. Sam watched the streets roll by, his thoughts wandering back to the reasons he’d made the trip—why he agreed to the arrangement. Reasons he hadn’t told anyone.
Memories of his brother Michael tugged at him, pulling him back to a time when things had felt… different. When things had been simpler. But that was before everything had shifted, and everything that once felt like home became strange, unfamiliar.
But today wasn’t about that. Today was about being here, with Grandpa, in this quiet moment.
Sam let out a deep breath, pushing those darker thoughts aside for the time being. Whatever came next, he’d face it when the time came. For now, he could enjoy this little piece of normalcy.
The car rumbled down the road, the engine purring like a contented cat. Sam’s fingers drummed lightly on the window, feeling the cool glass against his skin, the world outside a blur of familiar streets and trees. He glanced at Grandpa, whose hands rested solidly on the steering wheel, his posture unshakable, like the car itself was an extension of him.
“Now then, I want to know a bit about you. I haven’t seen you since you were a lad, and I reckon you’ve changed a heap.”
Sam paused, not knowing what to say. He had definitely changed since he last saw his grandpa, but he didn’t think that was a good thing. A lot had changed for the worse since that day. Since his mum… died.
Grandpa took note of his silence and smiled sadly, his eyes softening with a quiet understanding. “I miss her too,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a kind of reverence Sam hadn’t heard in a long time.
Sam’s head snapped toward him, startled. “What?”
“My Lucy,” Grandpa said, his voice heavy. “Miss her a whole lot. Never right, a dad outliving his daughter. Outliving his grandchildren.”
Sam felt his chest tighten, the words pulling something raw from deep inside him. His fingers clenched into fists at his side. “You’re talking about Michael, aren’t you?” Sam muttered, his voice quiet, as if just saying it out loud would make it more real.
Grandpa didn’t look at him right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, his expression unreadable.
Sam wasn’t sure if he was waiting for an answer, or if he already knew.
“He isn’t dead, Grandpa,” Sam continued, his tone growing defensive. “He’s just... missing.” The words felt hollow, like they didn’t mean what he wanted them to. Like they were a flimsy attempt to convince himself more than anyone else.
Grandpa sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry years of unspoken grief. “He’s as good as, kid.” The words hung heavy between them. “I don’t like sayin’ it, but I’ve seen enough to know when something’s gone. And I don’t think your brother’s comin’ back.”
Sam’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.
Grandpa’s eyes flicked to Sam for a brief moment, then back to the road, his voice quieter now. “You don’t have to believe me, Sammy. But it ain’t just you who’s been feeling the weight of it.”
Sam swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. His throat felt tight, as though the words he needed to say had become lodged there, too stubborn to make it past his lips. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t.
“But you don’t know for sure,” Sam said, his voice thick with the effort to sound steady. “I mean, what if—what if he’s just out there somewhere? What if he’s—” He couldn’t finish the thought. He didn’t even know what he was hoping for anymore. It had been nearly seven years since Michael left.
Grandpa was quiet for a moment, his eyes now narrowed, as if searching for something in the distance. “Sammy, I’ve lived a long time. Seen a lot of things. Some things can’t be fixed, no matter how much you want ‘em to be.”
Sam’s fingers dug into the edge of the seat, clenching until the leather creaked under his grip. The pain was overwhelming, a tight knot of sorrow and fear he couldn’t undo. He didn’t want to give up on Michael. He couldn’t. But hearing Grandpa speak like that made it feel like there was no other option.
For a long while, neither of them said anything. The car rumbled on, the hum of the engine the only sound between them, the world outside blurring by.
Sam’s heart twisted painfully in his chest, and he stared out the window, watching the fading light of the sun as it dipped behind the horizon, the sky a soft purple-pink.
The car bumped along the long dirt track, the tires crunching over gravel and uneven terrain. The trees that lined the path were thick and wild, their branches hanging low and casting long, dappled shadows across the road. As they neared the end of the trail, the trees began to thin, and the first glimpse of Grandpa Emerson’s cabin appeared through the branches.
It was an odd sight. The cabin had a slightly rundown, but charming look, the kind of place that felt more like a relic from another time than a home. The exterior was a patchwork of wood and aged materials—some boards freshly painted, others weathered and peeling with age. The windows were old, some crooked, some fogged with years of dust and weather. There was a small front porch, adorned with mismatched wind chimes, their various bells and metal pieces clanging together in the breeze. A faded flower pot sat by the steps, nearly overtaken by overgrown vines and unruly plants that had long since escaped the confines of their containers.
It was the kind of place that looked as though it had stopped caring for the world around it a long time ago, but in a way, it had its own peculiar beauty.
As the car rumbled to a stop in front of the cabin, Sam’s gaze swept across the scene. The isolation of it all, the surrounding forest, the cluttered porch—it felt worlds away from the busy, sun-drenched boardwalk of Santa Carla that they had passed by on the drive.
But there was something that caught his eye in the midst of it all, something that made his heart skip a beat. By the front porch, leaning against the cabin’s steps, was an old red dirt bike.
It was unmistakable.
Sam’s breath hitched in his chest as he recognized it immediately. It was Michael’s bike—the one he used to ride with such freedom, the one he’d abandoned without a second thought when things started to go sideways. Its red frame was chipped and scratched from years of use, the once-pristine condition now tarnished by time. The rubber on the tires was worn thin, but the familiar, rusty frame and the smell of oil and dirt—it was all there.
“Grandpa,” Sam whispered, his voice shaking slightly as he stared at the bike. “Is that—”
Grandpa Emerson chuckled gruffly from the driver’s seat, his weathered hands grasping the wheel. “Yep, that’s it. Your brother’s old bike. Lucy sent it my way after he ran off. I thought you might like it.”
Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, his heart pounding in his chest. He stepped out of the car, the dirt underfoot crumbling beneath his sneakers, and made his way toward the bike. It was almost like stepping back in time—he could remember Michael riding that thing, his hair flying in the wind, his grin wide and carefree.
“It’s not in perfect shape,” Grandpa called after him. “Needs a bit of fixing up. But I reckon you can handle it.”
Sam swallowed hard, still standing in front of the bike, unsure of what to do with himself. He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers against the rusted handlebars. The old bike felt both familiar and strange, like a bridge to a past he wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit. The way it had been left behind, the way Michael had simply walked away—no explanation, no goodbyes—it stung, even now.
“You got a problem with it?” Grandpa’s voice was lighter now, laced with a knowing amusement. He’d been watching Sam from the car, his expression unreadable.
Sam shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I just—” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to ride a motorbike, Grandpa.”
Grandpa’s laughter boomed out, echoing across the yard. “Well, you’ve got time to figure it out. Ain’t no rush. It’s yours now, Sammy. Just don’t go breaking your neck on it.”
Sam let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head at himself. “I don’t think I’m ready for something like this.” But deep down, he knew there was a part of him that had always wanted to learn, wanted to feel that rush of freedom again. Maybe, in some way, this was his chance.
He took another step closer, his fingers brushing over the worn leather of the seat, the metal of the frame. The bike felt like a piece of Michael, even though Michael was nowhere to be found. It was strange, almost like a gift from the past, one he didn’t quite know how to accept.
Grandpa watched him closely, his eyes softening. “It’s alright to miss him, you know,” he said quietly, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “Hell, I miss him too. But don’t go holding onto things that are gone, Sammy. You gotta keep living. There’s still a world out there for you.”
Sam felt his throat tighten, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. The words his grandpa spoke—words that hinted at an understanding of loss, of something broken—struck too close to the heart. He looked back at the bike, then back to Grandpa, his voice thick with emotion.
“Thanks, Grandpa. Really. It means a lot.”
Grandpa gave him a long, steady look, his eyes searching Sam’s face, as though he were trying to see past the mask Sam wore. “You’re welcome, boy. Just don’t let that bike collect dust, alright?”
Sam nodded, his hand still resting on the bike, the weight of the moment settling over him. As strange as it all felt, as unexpected as it was, he couldn’t help but feel something shifting in him. Maybe it was the bike, maybe it was his grandpa, or maybe it was the weight of the memories pressing down on him—but something was starting to stir. Something was beginning to wake.
And maybe, just maybe, this cabin, with all its quirks and strange, eerie charm, would be the place where Sam could figure out what came next.
The first time Sam tried to ride the bike, he drove headfirst into a tree.
But that is getting ahead of ourselves.
The first few days had been less about Sammy moving in, and more about getting the old red dirt bike back into shape.
Grandpa Emerson didn’t waste any time after he handed Sam the keys. The cabin, despite its eccentric charm, lacked any real modern comforts, but it had the tools to fix just about anything. And Grandpa was more than ready to dive into a project.
“You want it running, you’re gonna have to work for it, Sammy,” Grandpa had said, rolling up his sleeves the moment Sam expressed interest in fixing up the bike. He grabbed an old toolbox from the porch, clinking with wrenches, screwdrivers, and other gadgets. The smell of motor oil and metal filled the air as they set to work on the bike in the cluttered corner of the yard.
It wasn’t much, just a patch of dirt with a few rusted oil cans and a makeshift workbench, but Grandpa’s hands moved with practiced ease.
Sam, though—Sam was a bit lost. He’d never really been handy with tools.
“Alright, Sammy. Hand me that wrench. The one on the right. No, the other one—no, that one. Careful, don’t strip the threads now,” Grandpa barked, his voice a blend of command and affection. Sam handed him the wrench, fumbling a little, and Grandpa grunted approvingly.
They spent hours together, their movements synchronized as they tinkered with the bike, cleaning out old parts, tightening bolts, replacing the spark plug. The whole process was slow, meticulous, and Sam’s patience was tested more than once. But there was something about working alongside Grandpa that felt oddly comforting.
The old man’s rough hands showed years of hard work, and every now and then, he’d share a story about his own adventures with motorbikes and cars, stories that felt as ancient as the cabin itself. Sam listened with a mixture of fascination and awe, hanging on to every word.
“You know, my Lucy, you wouldn’t have believed it, but she used to love working on engines just like this when she was your age. Got her hands dirty more than she ever should have,” Grandpa muttered, not looking up as he adjusted the carburetor. “Drove her mother mad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get as much oil on his hands as she did that summer she helped fix up an junker of a car for some kids in town. Threw all the lads for a loop, she did.”
Sam wasn’t sure how to respond to that. There were so many things about his mum he didn’t know—things he didn’t quite want to know, either. But he nodded anyway, grateful for the distraction.
After hours of trial and error, Grandpa stood up, wiping his hands on an old rag. He walked to the front of the bike, giving it a critical look. “I think she’s ready for a test run,” he said, a satisfied smirk on his face.
Sam swallowed, his heart racing a little. “Uh, you mean me?” he asked, eyeing the bike warily. He wasn’t sure if it was ready for a test run—he barely felt ready to be the test subject.
“Yep. You. Got the helmet all set up. Just need to strap it on and figure out the rest.” Grandpa’s grin was mischievous, and there was a gleam in his eye that made Sam feel a little uneasy.
Grandpa pulled out a weathered helmet from the back of the porch and placed it on Sam’s head with a dramatic flourish. The helmet was much too big for him, sliding down over his eyes, and Sam tried to adjust it as Grandpa held it in place, tightening the strap under his chin.
“You look like a helmet-wearing potato,” Grandpa chuckled, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Sam adjusted the helmet again, feeling a little more than ridiculous but unable to argue with the fact that it was necessary.
Grandpa clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Alright, Sammy. You’ve got this. Just remember, keep your balance. Don’t let the throttle get away from you.”
Sam, unsure of everything, nodded and climbed onto the bike. He had never ridden a motorbike before, never even driven a car on his own. His hands shook slightly as he grasped the handlebars, staring down at the clutch and throttle, trying to remember which one did what.
“You got this!” Grandpa shouted, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Sam didn’t feel like he had it. He felt like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. But he kicked the bike into gear, the engine sputtering to life beneath him.
He gave the throttle a cautious twist.
Big mistake.
The bike lurched forward with a violent roar, throwing Sam off balance. His heart leapt into his throat, and the bike shot forward like a rocket on wheels, the front tire lifting off the ground as it careened toward the tree line.
“Whoa! WHOA!” Sam shouted, his hands struggling to maintain control of the handlebars. He veered sharply to the left, but the bike jerked the other way, racing full speed into the trees.
In a flash, he slammed right into the trunk of a large pine, sending him flying off the bike and crashing to the ground in a heap.
For a long, breathless second, there was nothing but silence. Sam lay there in the dirt, staring up at the sky, his helmet half-cocked on his head and his heart hammering in his chest.
Grandpa’s laughter echoed through the yard. “Well, I reckon we know the bike’s got some power, huh?”
Sam groaned, rubbing his shoulder as he slowly got to his feet. The tree had spared him most of the impact, but the shock of it all left him feeling more than a little dizzy. The bike, meanwhile, had come to a stop with the front wheel awkwardly lodged against the trunk of the tree.
“I’m fine,” Sam called out, wiping dirt from his hands as he stood up and walked over to the bike, trying to avoid looking too embarrassed. “Just… just a little rocky start.”
Grandpa’s laughter was loud and hearty, his voice warm and full of affection. “You’ll get the hang of it, Sammy. Just don’t go making a habit of running into trees.”
Sam shot him a wry look, his lips curling into a reluctant grin. “Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He climbed back onto the bike, adjusting the helmet that had somehow become even more crooked, and revved the engine again. This time, he was a little more careful, easing the throttle forward. The bike didn’t take off like a wild stallion, but it hummed steadily beneath him, and Sam felt a spark of hope that maybe—just maybe—he could do this.
Grandpa nodded in approval, his smile wide and proud. “That’s it, Sammy. That’s the spirit. Just keep her steady.”
And for the first time, Sam didn’t mind the wild feeling in his chest. He grinned as he revved the throttle a little more, finally gaining some confidence. He wasn’t sure where this bike would take him, but for once, the ride didn’t seem so terrifying.
As the hours passed, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the cabin and the surrounding woods. Sam’s hands, now more confident on the handlebars, gripped the throttle with increasing ease. The bike’s engine hummed beneath him as he rode in slow, steady loops around the yard, circling trees, swerving to avoid rocks, and grinding to a halt when his nerves got the better of him.
The first hour had been a mix of awkward jerks and stumbles, but the more Sam rode, the more he found his rhythm. It was still rough, but he felt the sense of control slowly slip back into his hands, the bike beginning to feel like an extension of himself rather than a ticking time bomb ready to send him into another tree.
He still couldn’t shake the stinging pain in his shoulder, the gash on his chin from his first crash, or the black eye he’d acquired when the handlebars had smacked him in the face during one of his more enthusiastic attempts to maneuver. His legs were scratched up with dirt and gravel, and his hands were sore, but the feeling of wind in his face, the rush of speed, was enough to make it all feel like part of the game.
He had never felt so free.
Grandpa had been patient, watching from the porch with a half-satisfied, half-amused expression on his face. He’d even been helpful, tossing Sam a wrench here and there when things went wrong—a bolt came loose, the throttle got sticky, the bike stalled out—nothing too serious, but enough to keep them busy.
“Don’t worry about it, Sammy,” Grandpa had shouted earlier when Sam looked at him with a frustrated frown after the bike sputtered to a stop. “This thing’s been sitting here for years. It’ll take some work. Ain’t no shame in it.”
Sam had wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to brush off the annoyance. He wasn’t used to being so clumsy. It was like the bike was trying to get back at him for every mistake. But with Grandpa’s help, they’d gotten it running again, and Sam had taken it for another spin, a little more carefully this time.
As he rode around in slow, steady circles, he began to feel a sense of pride. His balance improved, and the bike no longer felt like it was going to buck him off at any moment. He started pushing it a little harder, leaning into the turns, gripping the throttle with more confidence. His chin throbbed with every bump, but he didn’t mind. It was nothing compared to the satisfaction of the ride.
The sky, now streaked with orange and purple, seemed to slow down with the passing of time. Grandpa’s voice called out to him every now and then, making sure he didn’t get too reckless.
“You’re getting the hang of it, but don’t go taking any shortcuts, kid. Don’t want you taking a dive into the bushes.”
Sam laughed, wiping a hand across his brow and offering his grandpa a grin. “I’m fine! I’m getting better!”
Grandpa squinted at him from the porch, a look of proud skepticism on his face. “You sure? You look like you’ve been through a war.”
Sam chuckled, shifting the bike into neutral as he rolled it to a stop. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath, a mix of exhilaration and exhaustion settling over him. He looked down at his arms, the scratches, bruises, and a few fresh cuts from his latest spill. His chin was still sore, and the swelling around his eye hadn’t gone down much, but the smile on his face was genuine.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little breathless. “I’m sure. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive.”
Grandpa’s laugh was a deep, gravelly sound, full of warmth. He stood from his chair and stretched his arms, walking over to the bike with a quick glance at the mess Sam had made of himself. “You’re looking a little worse for wear, Sammy. But I suppose that’s part of the deal when you’re learning something new.”
Sam didn’t respond, instead turning the bike off and letting it rest between his legs. He pulled off the helmet, ruffling his hair with a tired but satisfied sigh. “You were right, Grandpa. I don’t think I’ve ever had a day like this before.”
Grandpa gave him a hard, approving slap on the back. “You’ll remember this one, for sure.” He looked over the bike with a nod, surveying the damage. “Got a few more things to work on, though. We’ll fix that up in the morning.”
Sam glanced at the bike with a knowing look. It was still a bit banged up—a missing mirror, a dent in the gas tank, a few more scratches on the handlebars from his crash. It wasn’t perfect, but neither was Sam, and the two of them seemed to fit together in their own messy, imperfect way.
“You think we’ll get it all fixed?” Sam asked, his gaze drifting from the bike to his grandfather. He didn’t want to sound too hopeful, but part of him really wanted to get the bike working properly, to prove he could do it.
Grandpa grinned, a wink in his eyes. “You think I’d leave you hanging? We’ll get her running smooth enough for you to make some real tracks, Sammy. Ain’t no stopping a boy who’s determined to ride.”
Sam grinned, his eyes bright with that familiar spark of determination. He had the feeling this was the start of something—something he hadn’t expected. With Grandpa by his side, the bike didn’t seem so impossible anymore.
“I’ll be ready,” Sam said, a quiet promise.
Grandpa clapped him on the back once more. “That’s the spirit.” Then he looked over at the fading light of the day. “But for now, you’ve earned yourself a rest. Let’s go inside and have some dinner. You’re looking like you need a good meal.”
Sam laughed, his stomach growling at the mention of food. It had been a long day of learning, of bumps and bruises, but it had been the best kind of day—a day full of small victories. With his grandfather at his side and the bike now a challenge to look forward to, Sam couldn’t help but feel a little lighter than he had in years.
The day wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. And sometimes, that’s all you really needed.
The small kitchen smelled of warmth and comfort as Sam sat across from his grandfather at the table, the two of them sharing a modest dinner of mac and cheese. It wasn’t the grandest of meals, but it was simple, and in a strange way, it felt just right. The yellow-orange sauce clung to the noodles in a way that felt familiar, even if Sam didn’t remember when or where that familiarity came from. The kind of food you ate on a quiet evening, when everything else in the world felt miles away.
Grandpa didn’t seem to care much about the lack of extravagance, though. He’d slathered the cheese sauce over his bowl without complaint, settling into his usual easygoing mood. The clink of their forks and the soft hum of conversation made the evening feel like a fleeting moment of peace—a sharp contrast to the chaos that had brought Sam here.
“So,” Grandpa said between mouthfuls, his voice gruff but warm, “You seem to be settling in all right. Feeling better about it all? Not missing your MTV?” He chuckled.
Sam gave a half-smile, glancing down at his plate. The warmth of the meal helped a little, but something in his chest still felt tight. He wasn’t quite sure why. “It’s alright, grandpa. I like it here,” he shrugged.
Grandpa chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that vibrated in his chest. “That’s the spirit.“
Sam nodded, but his thoughts drifted. He poked at the mac and cheese, finding it hard to focus on the meal. His mind kept slipping back to the conversation they’d had earlier. The bike. The small victories. But the image of his mother, Lucy, and his brother, Michael, lingered there in the back of his mind. Unwelcome guests he couldn’t shake.
Grandpa seemed to sense the quiet shift in the atmosphere, the way Sam’s shoulders seemed to tense up, but he didn’t stop talking. He just kept on eating, oblivious to the subtle change in the air.
“So,” Grandpa said, his voice a little softer now, “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, what with everything... what with your mom.”
The words hit Sam like a stone dropped into a calm pool, sending ripples through him. The spoon in his hand went still, hovering just above his bowl as he froze. He didn’t look up. His eyes stayed focused on the macaroni, on the little swirl of sauce stuck to the edge of the dish.
“Grandpa,” Sam muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. It was all he could manage, something simple to stave off the thoughts that were already crawling their way up to the surface.
His grandfather’s tone shifted slightly. He didn’t push it, but Sam could hear the underlying sadness in his words. He didn’t need to say much more—Sam already knew that Grandpa missed Lucy, too.
“I know, Sammy. I know. Just…” He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his weathered hands folding over his stomach. “She was the best. God, she had a heart big enough to fill this whole house.”
Sam swallowed thickly.
He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to talk about her—he just didn’t know how. How could you explain something so big, something that had torn your entire world apart? The thought of her still hurt too much, but worse was the thought of what came after. What had happened. Sam could feel his chest tightening, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes burned.
Grandpa didn’t seem to notice the shift in Sam’s face. He was too busy looking down at his bowl, absentmindedly stirring the noodles. “Your mom,” he said, like he was thinking aloud, “she always had this way of making everything better, you know? Even when things were hard. When she met your dad…” He paused, his expression darkening.
Sam’s stomach twisted. He felt the familiar surge of heat rush to his face. He wasn’t sure how Grandpa was going to spin this, but the mention of his dad—well, it was like stepping on a landmine.
Grandpa cleared his throat, then went on, almost as though he were trying to convince himself. “She tried, Sammy. She really did. But your father…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “That bastard. He never appreciated her. Never treated her right.”
Sam’s hand curled around the edge of his spoon, knuckles going white, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure he could.
“I don’t know how she stuck with him for as long as she did,” Grandpa continued, his voice taking on a darker edge. He glanced up at Sam then, his face hard. “But I’ll tell you this, Sammy, that bastard got what he deserved. You did no wrong in my eyes, boy. If you hadn’t’ve done it, I would’ve.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The air in the cave was damp, heavy with the lingering chill of the earth, clinging to Michael’s skin like a persistent, quiet reminder of the world they no longer belonged to. The cold seeped into his bones, but it was nothing compared to the warmth that radiated from the small group gathered around him. Fires flickered in the corners of the cavern, casting their erratic light across the uneven stone floor, the flames dancing like whispers of some forgotten dream. Shadows stretched and twisted, contorting their faces into strange, unfamiliar shapes, lending a kind of haunting intimacy to the space. It felt as though the world outside had ceased to exist, and for a moment, all that mattered was the closeness they shared in the silence, the connection that pulsed between them.
Marko and Paul were off doing who knew what, their absence barely noticed in the haze of the cave’s dark corners. Michael barely registered Marko’s comment about comics—it was fleeting, a fragment of sound that slipped away almost as soon as it left his lips. His focus remained on the stillness around him, and more specifically, the presence beside him.
David sat close, their shoulders almost brushing, the slightest touch of his cool hand against Michael’s thigh sending a familiar shiver of recognition down his spine. It wasn’t just the physical contact—it was the way their closeness felt inevitable, as though they had always been drawn to one another by something deeper than mere attraction or the weight of their shared existence. Something that tethered Michael to this strange, violent life in ways he couldn’t articulate. The bond between them was more than the simple leader-and-follower dynamic. There was a magnetic force there, something that pulsed in the air between them, something that made the world outside of this cave seem distant, irrelevant.
Michael’s fingers moved almost of their own accord, brushing the edge of David’s hand, tracing its contours as though he were trying to memorize it, to understand the pull it had on him. The touch was intimate, yet unspoken, a promise wrapped in the quiet tension that lingered like a breath held too long. There was comfort in it, an undeniable sense of grounding, like David’s presence alone could tether Michael to something resembling peace. He couldn’t explain it. It was more than affection—it was something deeper, something that echoed through the years of his life, through the transformation, through the endless nights that stretched on forever.
Laddie was tucked away across the cave, curled up against Dwayne, his small frame barely visible in the dim light. The boy was still trying to adjust, still too innocent, too human in ways that made Michael ache. There was something about Laddie, a purity that clung to him like a shroud, something untouched by the chaos of their world. Michael had always felt protective of him. There was a fragility to the boy, a vulnerability that made Michael want to shield him from the darkness surrounding them. He had seen how the others looked at Laddie, eyes filled with something almost possessive, something that spoke of hunger, of desire.
Michael wasn’t sure how much longer Laddie’s innocence would last in their world. He could already see the flickers of change in Laddie’s eyes—the quiet acceptance of the violence, the darkness that would inevitably consume him if he wasn’t careful. Michael had no illusions about how long they could all hold onto what little humanity they had left.
The air felt thick with unspoken words, with things left unsaid. The flickering firelight seemed to stretch time itself, holding them all in a delicate, fragile moment that could shatter at any second. And yet, in that quiet, he found himself wishing it would never end, that they could stay in this space forever—protected, together, despite everything they had become.
David leaned in closer, his body almost touching Michael’s, the proximity sending a charged shiver through the younger vampire. His voice dropped to a low, hushed murmur, like something meant only for Michael, something that couldn’t be shared with the rest of the world. The intimacy in his tone was suffocating, yet oddly comforting.
“Max wants him turned,” he said, each word laced with a cold finality, hanging in the air like a sentence of death that neither of them could escape.
Michael froze, his body instinctively stiffening, the muscles in his shoulders tightening under the weight of the words. The blood in his veins seemed to slow, as though the very thought of Laddie—Laddie, still so young, so untainted by the endless years of darkness they had all come to know—being forced into that same fate was too much to bear.“No,” Michael murmured, his voice rough, an edge of panic creeping in. His hands balled into fists at his sides. The idea of Laddie being turned, being thrust into a world he wasn’t ready for, tore at him. The boy was still so full of innocence. Michael could see the fear gnawing at Dwayne, too. The usually stoic, unflappable Dwayne was unsettled by this decision—an emotion Michael rarely saw from him.
His voice, though quiet and resigned, cut through the tension. “Max doesn’t like to leave things halfway. He’s been hinting at it for a while now. Says Laddie’s ready.”
“Ready?” Michael’s words were barely more than a whisper, but the disbelief in his tone exploded in his chest, cracking through the calm exterior he tried to maintain. “You’re kidding, right? He’s still—he’s still just a kid. He’s not ready to make that choice. He shouldn’t have to.” His voice hardened, a flicker of something darker sparking within him. “He hasn’t even been half for that long.”
David’s response was a slow, calculating shrug, the movement like water rippling across a still pond. His eyes, though, were unreadable—deep, hollow pools that didn’t give anything away. “Max doesn’t care. He never has. But you and Dwayne, you’re too soft when it comes to Laddie. He’s part of this family, just like we are. And the rest of us, we all made our choices. Laddie will, too.”The words sliced through Michael like a cold blade. David's casual indifference to Laddie’s fate made his stomach churn, and he could feel the heat of frustration rising up from deep inside him. The last thing he wanted was for Laddie to be forced into this world of blood and violence. The boy deserved more than this—the promise of an existence stripped of everything that made him human. “Yeah, but turning him…” Michael's voice faltered, the words caught somewhere between his throat and his heart. “He’s different, David. He’s still holding on to something human. Something real.”
David’s fingers, long and sure, drifted down to Michael’s chin, turning his face gently, but firmly, to meet his eyes. The touch was tender but commanding, the unspoken message clear. He didn’t need Michael to speak; he needed Michael to see. “You don’t get it, Mikey,” David murmured, his voice smooth like velvet, almost too soft for the weight of the words. His thumb brushed across Michael’s jawline, a small, caressing touch that was at once soothing and possessive. “The world isn’t soft. We don’t have time to coddle anyone. Laddie has to face it, one way or another. He’ll choose, just like we all did.”
Michael’s frustration threatened to boil over, and he jerked his chin away from David’s touch, shaking off the control that the older vampire exuded so effortlessly. His fists clenched tighter, nails digging into his palms. “You’ve been around so long, you’ve forgotten what it was like to be human,” Michael snapped, his voice raw with the weight of years he couldn’t escape. “To lose everything—to be taken over like that.”
David’s lips parted into a faint, knowing smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It was more of a smirk, something soft and deadly all at once. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Michael’s. “You’re not wrong, Mikey. I’ve forgotten a lot of things.” His hand slid down to rest on Michael’s shoulder, possessive, constant, as though the very act of touching him kept him tethered to this world. "But I don’t need to remember, not really. What matters is that Laddie has to choose, and he will. Whether he’s ready or not."
The space between them was thick with unspoken tension. Michael’s heart thundered in his chest, a sharp, desperate rhythm, but David’s touch remained—steady, controlling. There was something about the way he touched Michael, so consistently, so deliberately, that made it clear: Michael was always, in some way, David’s. And the idea that Laddie, innocent and untouched, would be pulled into this dark, endless cycle felt wrong. But in this world, wrong or not, there was little room for escape.
David’s smile widened ever so slightly, the moment hanging suspended in the air before he broke the silence with a quiet, almost dismissive comment: “The only question is whether he does it now or later, Mikey. There’s no other option.”
Michael’s breath caught in his throat. And as the tension between them deepened, Michael knew there was no escaping what was coming—not for Laddie, and not for any of them.
Michael’s gaze shifted toward Laddie, his heart heavy with a sorrow he couldn’t put into words. His voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “I’m not ready for him to lose that part of himself yet.” His words dropped into the cavern, heavy and final, as if he were speaking a quiet, personal vow. “I won’t let him lose it.”
David, always so calm, always so composed, let out a low, drawn-out breath. His hand, warm and familiar, slid over Michael’s shoulder in a gesture that was both comforting and possessive. The touch lingered there, solid and grounding, as if David’s presence alone could pull Michael back from the edge of the raw emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "You’re not going to stop Max. No one does."
The words were like a cold bucket of water, a reminder of the harsh truth that Michael had been avoiding. There was silence, but it wasn’t peaceful—it was thick, charged with the weight of unspoken things, of feelings that neither of them were ready to acknowledge fully. Michael could feel the current between him and David, that undeniable, invisible thread that had always existed between them, even before the darkness had fully claimed them both. The connection that had started in the early days, when Michael had first been pulled into the fold of the Lost Boys, had only deepened as time had worn on. It was something else—something deep, unshakeable, and it made Michael feel like there was nowhere he could hide from it.
He wanted to push back, wanted to argue that they didn’t have to follow Max’s every order, that they didn’t have to be so cold and ruthless about Laddie’s fate. But as Michael’s eyes met David’s, the familiar intensity in David’s gaze silenced him. There was no point in fighting it. David’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder, just enough to remind him of the power that rested in the older vampire’s presence, and that was enough to make Michael bite back the words that wanted to spill out.David’s voice softened, but there was no warmth in it—just a quiet finality that made Michael’s stomach twist. “You’ll have to make your peace with it, Mikey,” he said, his hand slowly drifting down Michael’s arm, fingers grazing the back of his hand, the touch lingering for just a second too long. "The kid’s going to have to face what we all did.”The words landed like a stone in Michael’s chest, and his breath hitched, a tight knot of guilt winding around his ribcage. He heard Dwayne exhale softly beside him, the sound carrying the weight of resignation, of understanding. Even in the corner of the cave, Laddie stirred, still asleep but restless, his small form twitching in his sleep as if he could feel the tension in the air.
Michael’s throat tightened as he swallowed hard, the bitterness of the situation choking him. He had never wanted this for Laddie—not this. Not the cold, unfeeling inevitability of it all. But David was right. Michael had already made his peace with the transformation long ago, even if he hated it. He had done it to survive, to keep breathing. But that didn’t make it any easier. "Yeah, I know," Michael muttered, his voice thick with something darker than just reluctance. "But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
David’s hand, warm and insistent, moved again, now resting against Michael’s neck, his thumb gently stroking the curve of his jawline, a touch both tender and controlling. It was a reminder—a constant, steadying presence, one that kept Michael tethered to the harsh reality of their existence. There was no room for softness here. No room for mercy.
David didn’t need to say more. He didn’t have to. His touch, his proximity, said everything.
Some time later, Michael sat in his personal room, the dim, cool light of the cave casting long, soft shadows across the rough stone walls. The air was thick, stagnant with the weight of everything that lingered unsaid. He didn’t feel the need to sleep—he never did anymore—but the stillness, the silence, seemed to press on him in ways he wasn’t used to. As much as he had accepted this new existence, as much as he had embraced the emptiness, it still gnawed at him. The questions. The doubts. The fear that never quite left.
He’d been pacing, again, when he heard footsteps approaching—slow, deliberate. He turned to find Dwayne entering the room, his presence as steady and grounding as it always was. The faint, practiced care in the way Dwayne moved told Michael everything he needed to know. Dwayne had a way of knowing, a way of reading him, without needing a single word spoken.
“Thought you’d be in here.” Dwayne’s voice was calm, as ever, but there was something in his eyes—a quiet understanding of what Michael was trying to hide, the conflict he was struggling to manage alone.
Michael shrugged, but the movement felt stiff, tight. “I was just... thinking.”
Dwayne raised an eyebrow, crossing the threshold and settling next to him without hesitation. His hand found its way to Michael’s shoulder, the touch warm and grounding. “Yeah? You sure about that? Sounds more like worrying to me.” His thumb stroked the back of Michael’s neck, a movement so familiar it felt like home.
Michael exhaled, tension escaping with the breath. He didn’t argue, didn’t have it in him. Dwayne was right, anyway. It wasn’t just thinking. It was a constant churn of worry and frustration. “It’s Laddie. I just... I don’t want him to go through what we did.”
Dwayne’s gaze softened. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just rubbed his thumb gently over Michael’s skin, a silent comfort. He understood. He’d always understood.
“You don’t know Max the way we do,” Dwayne said at last, his voice low but edged with the gravity of truth. “When David turned you, it wasn’t with Max’s permission. You didn’t deal with him during your transition. You don’t know just how persistent he can be, how... relentless.”
Michael turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Dwayne’s with a furrowed brow. He hadn’t thought of that. He had always wondered why David had done it without consulting Max. Now, the weight of it made sense in a way he hadn’t quite grasped before. “You mean he...?”
Dwayne nodded slowly. “Max doesn’t stop. He doesn’t give up. He gets what he wants, and when it’s about turning someone—he gets obsessive.” Dwayne’s hand lingered on Michael’s neck, his grip subtle but firm, as though offering a sense of reassurance Michael didn’t know he needed. “It’s not about what’s right for them. It’s about what Max thinks is best.”
Michael’s chest tightened, the thought of Laddie, so young, so vulnerable, being forced into something so permanent sending a ripple of panic through him. “But he’s not ready. He doesn’t even understand all this. How could Max...”
Dwayne’s expression softened, but his eyes were sharp, perceptive. “I know, Mikey. I know. But you don’t get to decide that for him.”
Michael clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The frustration burned inside him, like fire creeping just beneath the skin. “I hate that. He deserves a choice, a chance to be... something real.”
“I know,” Dwayne repeated, voice quieter, but full of the weight of experience. “But it’s not up to us. Not with Max around.”
Michael’s gaze dropped to the floor, the reality of it all weighing heavily. He wanted to fight it. He wanted to protect Laddie, to keep the boy from being forced into something that would steal everything from him—his innocence, his humanity, everything that still made him feel like a child.
Before Michael could speak again, Dwayne’s hand moved, sliding up to cradle the side of his face. The touch wasn’t forceful or demanding, just the soft, steady pressure of someone who knew how to anchor him. Someone who had always been there when things felt like they were slipping.
“You don’t have to fight this alone, Mikey,” Dwayne murmured. “I’m with you. You know that, right?”
Michael’s eyes fluttered shut at the words, the touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. He hadn’t asked for it, but Dwayne had always been there, a steady presence, never asking for anything in return. Just... being.
For a moment, it felt like the tension in Michael’s body eased, just a little, as if the weight of everything pressing on him had lightened, even if only by a fraction. He wasn’t alone. Not now. Not with Dwayne by his side.
“You’re not going to let him do it, are you?” Michael asked, his voice small, uncertain.Dwayne’s thumb gently brushed over Michael’s cheek. “No,” he said simply, his tone resolute, unwavering. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”Michael’s breath hitched at the sincerity in Dwayne’s words. They didn’t need to say more. The unspoken promise between them—of protection, of understanding—spoke volumes.
Dwayne leaned in then, his face close, just enough to remind Michael that this, too, was something he could rely on—something soft and real, something that didn’t ask for anything but trust. Their lips met, the kiss slow and grounding. It was an intimacy that wasn’t rooted in lust or need, but in the quiet, steadfast bond they had forged over years of shared experience.
When they pulled away, Dwayne’s forehead rested against Michael’s, their breaths mingling in the stillness. Michael felt the weight of everything—his fears, his frustrations—ease, just for a moment. He wasn’t alone. Not with Dwayne beside him.
“We’ll protect him, Mikey,” Dwayne whispered. “Just like we always protect each other.”
Michael nodded, his heart steadying in the quiet comfort of Dwayne’s touch. “Yeah,” he whispered back, his voice barely audible. “We will.”