He made his way to class, hands in his pockets, posture loose like he didn't have a single concern in the world.
Which—
Wasn't entirely wrong.
He already knew the subject they were talking about.
For fuck's sake, when it came to certain events in the American Civil War?
His ass had been there.
Front row seats.
First-hand experience.
History class, to him, was less "learning" and more "reliving old memories he didn't ask for."
As for math?
Yeah.
That too.
He had mastered every level of it.
Algebra.
Calculus.
The weird abstract shit people pretended to understand.
All of it.
He wasn't here to learn.
He was here because—
One, he wanted to be.
And two—
He was supposed to be a twenty-something rich kid attending school like a normal person.
Which was getting harder and harder to maintain.
Because cameras?
Surveillance?
Facial recognition?
Yeah.
Those didn't exactly play nice with someone who didn't age.
Eventually, that cover would collapse.
But for now?
He could still play the role.
—
He stepped into the classroom.
Students scattered across their seats.
Some paying attention.
Most not.
A few had their eyes glazed over slightly—
Using their implants.
Eyescan.
Meta Eye.
Whatever the hell people were calling it now.
A chip in the brain.
Projecting screens.
Streaming content.
Copying notes.
Watching videos.
Cheating like their lives depended on it.
Basically—
A phone.
In your head.
Also probably tracking everything you did.
Michael wasn't interested.
He preferred pencil and paper.
Cleaner.
Simpler.
Didn't require someone digging around in his brain.
He moved to his usual spot.
Back of the class.
Near the window.
Elbow resting against the desk.
Chin propped lazily against his palm.
The teacher was talking.
Something about equations.
Or history.
Or whatever subject he needed to pretend to care about to maintain his A+.
He wasn't listening.
Didn't need to.
He already knew everything being said.
The sun filtered through the window beside him, soft golden light spilling across his skin.
Warm.
Gentle.
Almost pleasant.
You know—
When it wasn't actively trying to kill him.
His fingers absentmindedly brushed against the ring on his hand.
Moments like this—
He appreciated being rich.
Connections helped.
A lot.
His ears picked up something faint—
A TV.
Mounted near the corner of the classroom.
Muted chatter beneath the teacher's voice.
A news anchor.
His attention shifted slightly.
The woman on screen wore a professional smile, posture straight, voice clear.
"—breaking this morning, authorities are investigating a possible drowning incident at Lake Mercer."
Michael's eyes flicked to the screen.
Interest sparked.
That lake—
Yeah.
Same forest.
Same area he fought James.
The footage changed.
A wide shot of the lake.
Calm.
Still.
Deceptively peaceful.
The kind of place that looked harmless until it wasn't.
"Witnesses report that a local teenager disappeared while swimming late last night with friends."
A clip rolled.
Three girls.
Wrapped in blankets.
Shaking.
Crying.
One of them spoke, voice trembling.
"We—we were just swimming, like we always do," she said, wiping tears from her face. "And then—he just—he just jumped in."
Another girl nodded rapidly.
"He doesn't even swim," she added. "Like—he hates water, he wouldn't just—"
Her voice cracked.
"He just went under."
Michael's gaze sharpened slightly.
Oh.
Yeah.
His ass got snatched.
He knew it instantly.
Still—
He wasn't fully sure.
Might need to refresh on his notes.
Mermen.
Mermaids.
Sirens.
There were differences.
Important ones.
The anchor continued, tone steady, detached.
"They attempted to retrieve him, but the depth of the lake made rescue efforts impossible."
The screen shifted again.
A map.
Lake connected to a river system.
Depth markers flashing.
Currents.
Pathways.
Yeah.
That kid was gone.
If he was lucky?
He wasn't being digested already.
Michael leaned back slightly, eyes still on the screen.
Curious now.
One of the girls spoke again.
Quieter.
Hesitant.
"I—I saw something," she whispered.
The interviewer leaned closer.
"What do you mean?"
"…A hand," she said, barely audible. "Like—like something grabbed him."
The anchor's expression didn't change.
But the doubt?
Obvious.
She didn't believe it.
Trauma.
Shock.
Delusion.
That was the narrative.
"You have to believe me," the girl insisted, voice cracking. "I saw it—a webbed hand pulled him—"
Yeah.
No one was buying that.
—
Meanwhile—
Michael.
He already had his answer.
Merman.
Most likely.
Which meant—
Good news?
The kid was probably alive.
Bad news?
Yeah…
Slavery.
Underwater.
Fun.
Michael's bored gaze drifted back to the window.
Unbothered.
Not because he lacked empathy—
Well.
Not entirely.
But because this?
This was normal.
Mermen pulling people into the depths?
That was a tale as old as time.
Different versions.
Different cultures.
Same outcome.
It happened.
A lot.
So yeah.
The kid would be fine.
For now.
Stranded?
Definitely.
Time dilation?
Oh, that was going to hurt like a bitch.
But alive?
Probably.
And it's not like Michael could help.
Even if he wanted to.
He was a vampire.
And yeah—
The whole "can't cross running water" thing?
Total bullshit.
Made up to control the masses.
Didn't change the fact that—
They were weaker in water.
Slower.
Less efficient.
Trying to fight a merman underwater?
That was just asking to die.
He wasn't a werewolf.
Mermen?
Fastest swimmers in existence.
Easily pushing past 300 mph underwater.
Absolute monsters in their domain.
Best strategy?
Lure them to land.
Then maul them.
Simple.
Effective.
For humans.
But mermen weren't stupid.
No self-respecting one was coming onto land if a vampire was nearby.
That was just begging to get
their neck snapped.
They were smarter than that.
Michael exhaled softly.
Oh well.
Not his problem.
His friend would be back soon.
Hopefully.
And until then?
He'd find something else to entertain himself.
The teacher kept talking.
Droning on.
Unaware.
No one noticed the predator sitting among them.
Casually categorizing supernatural threats like a bored analyst.
Because why would they?
To them—
This was a tragedy.
To him?
Tuesday.
The bell rang.
Finally.
Chairs scraped.
Students stood.
Noise flooded back in.
Michael pushed himself up, stretching lightly as he grabbed his bag.
That whole situation?
Not his problem.
Didn't concern him.
Didn't interest him enough to act.
If the mermen wanted to play?
Let them.
As long as they stayed out of his way.
He stepped into the hallway.
The crowd subtly parting around him without realizing it.
After school—
He had plans.
A date.
Some girl whose name he definitely remembered.
Probably.
And after that?
Maybe training.
Because honestly—
2K without James?
Boring as hell.
Michael clicked his tongue softly.
"…Hurry back, idiot."
After class, he decided he would pick up Aaliyah Torres—or whatever her name was. He had a date, apparently.
So instead of heading toward the main exit like a normal, well-adjusted student, Michael cut through the side corridor and slipped into the narrow alley running along the edge of the school.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that wasn't natural—but intentional.
This was one of those spots.
The unofficial zones.
Where cameras conveniently "didn't reach."
Where debris just happened to block every useful angle.
Where horny teenagers came to make life-altering mistakes and pretend consequences weren't real.
Michael didn't even slow down.
His senses brushed against something—
A faint barrier.
Thin. Sticky. Pulsing with low-grade seduction magic.
Ah.
Succubus.
Probably draining some poor idiot dry while he thought he was having the best moment of his life.
Michael kept walking.
Not his problem.
He wasn't Captain Save-A-Human.
He turned the corner to re-enter the school—
—and bumped into someone.
Which, in itself, was already wrong.
Because his senses hadn't picked up anything.
Not a heartbeat.
Not a shift in air.
Not even a shadow moving wrong.
Nothing.
His head tilted up.
Standing there—
As if he had always been there—
Merrow Blackthorne.
History teacher.
The man looked exactly as he always did: composed, refined, untouched by the chaos of the world around him.
A dark coat rested perfectly over his shoulders, not a single wrinkle out of place. His cane sat lightly in his hand—not leaned on, not needed—just… held.
Like a choice.
Like a weapon pretending not to be one.
And in that instant—
Michael felt it.
A barrier.
Not visible.
Not loud.
But absolute.
Like the space itself had decided:
"You are not leaving unless he allows it."
A cold realization slid down his spine.
I could die here.
Sweat pricked at his skin—real, immediate, human in a way he hated.
The man's presence pressed down on him—not violently, not aggressively—
—but with suffocating certainty.
Like standing in front of something that had already calculated every possible outcome…
and found none where you walked away.
Michael locked the fuck in.
Immediately.
Face relaxed.
Posture loose.
Hands slipping casually into his pockets like nothing was wrong.
Like his instincts weren't screaming at him to run.
"Mr. Blackthorne," Michael greeted smoothly, voice even, controlled.
"Didn't expect to run into you here."
Blackthorne's lips curved—just barely.
Measured. Polite.
Fake.
"I could say the same," he replied, voice smooth as silk dragged over a blade.
His gaze flicked once around the alley.
"Though I suppose… some individuals are rather fond of dark corners."
Michael smirked, pulling one hand from his pocket like he wasn't seconds away from getting turned into a statistic.
"What can I say?"
A slight tilt of his head.
"I've always liked the dark."
Blackthorne's eyes lingered.
Studying.
Weighing.
Measuring threat.
Calculating.
And then—
He moved to the point.
"James has not attended school for several days."
Ah.
There it was.
Michael didn't react.
Didn't blink.
Didn't shift.
"Has he not?" he replied lightly.
Blackthorne wasn't buying it.
"Curious," the man murmured, tapping his cane once against the ground.
Tap.
The sound echoed far louder than it should have.
"Considering he was last seen… with you."
The air changed.
Subtly.
But completely.
The warmth bled out of the space.
The pressure deepened.
Blackthorne's gaze sharpened—cold, precise, surgical.
Michael's senses screamed.
The cane—
That wasn't just a cane.
The faint burn crawling across his instincts told him everything he needed to know.
Stake.
Not ordinary wood.
Something treated.
Something… sanctified.
Holy water.
Dipped. Soaked. Embedded.
Even just being near it made his skin itch.
And the cross around the man's neck?
Blinding.
Not visually—
But spiritually.
Like staring directly at something that rejected his very existence.
Yeah.
No more guessing.
Hunter.
Not low rank either.
No.
This was the kind of man you didn't run into by accident.
This was the kind of man sent when something already went wrong.
Michael smiled anyway.
Lazy. Casual.
"He mentioned visiting family."
Blackthorne's head tilted.
Just slightly.
"Ah," he murmured.
A pause.
Then—
"Is that what we are calling it now?"
His eyes sharpened further.
"'Visiting family'… such a delicate way to phrase vanishing."
Michael's smile didn't falter.
Internally?
He was already recalculating his entire existence.
"I'm not sure what you're implying, sir."
Blackthorne didn't smile back this time.
His grip on the cane tightened—
And then—
Pressure.
It dropped.
Like a mountain collapsing onto his shoulders.
Invisible.
Unavoidable.
Crushing.
FUCK.
Michael's body reacted instantly.
Muscles locking.
Blood surging through his veins at violent speed.
His fangs pressed against his gums—
Ready to slip.
Mist began to gather.
Thin at first.
Then thicker.
An escape route.
A contingency.
Because if this turned—
He wasn't winning.
And then—
A sensation.
Sharp.
Cold.
Precise.
Like something slicing clean across his neck.
Not real.
But close enough that his body believed it.
His gaze snapped up—
Crimson eyes meeting Blackthorne's.
And what he saw—
Was worse than anger.
Worse than hatred.
Calm.
Complete.
Absolute.
The kind of calm that came from knowing you were in control.
"Should your friend be found… harmed," Blackthorne said quietly, almost conversationally,
"it would be most unfortunate if an accident were to befall you as well."
Not a threat.
Too crude.
Too direct.
No—
This was a possibility.
Presented politely.
Michael's smile thinned.
Dangerously.
His nails lengthened.
Four inches.
Sharp.
Refined.
Stronger than steel.
Veins pulsed beneath his skin as power gathered—
And then—
"Michael!"
It shattered.
Just like that.
The pressure.
The tension.
The invisible blade hanging over his neck—
Gone.
Arms wrapped around his.
Warm.
Alive.
Oblivious.
Aaliyah Torres beamed up at him, practically glowing.
"Oh my God, you actually came to pick me up!" she gushed, clinging to him. "That's so sweet, I'm ready for our date!"
Michael blinked once.
The mist faded.
His fangs slid back.
The world snapped back into place.
Aaliyah looked between them, confused but smiling.
"What are you two doing out here?"
Completely unaware she had just interrupted something that could've ended very badly.
Blackthorne's expression smoothed instantly.
Perfect again.
Refined.
Civil.
"I was merely reminding this young man," he said calmly, adjusting his cane, "that accidents happen quite frequently."
A small, polite smile.
"And that one should always treasure their life. As we never know when it may… end."
Aaliyah smiled warmly.
"Oh—that's actually really thoughtful!"
Michael almost laughed.
Almost.
Blackthorne inclined his head.
Then turned.
And walked away.
Just like that.
Gone.
Like a shadow slipping out of sight.
Aaliyah leaned into Michael's arm.
"See? Not all teachers are boring," she said cheerfully.
Michael stared ahead for a moment.
Jaw tight.
Fangs slowly retracting.
"…Yeah," he said after a second.
Flat.
Controlled.
"Very thoughtful."
Internally?
He had almost been packed up.
And that—
That was going to be a problem.
—
Meanwhile, with Blackthorne—
As he turned the corner, the warmth left his expression entirely.
Gone.
Replaced with something colder.
Sharper.
Older.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small cylindrical device—sleek, metallic, etched faintly with symbols that pulsed under the surface like something alive.
A tool.
Not modern.
Not entirely.
He glanced at the display.
It flickered once—
Then settled.
Red.
A low hum vibrated through it, almost disappointed.
Blackthorne studied it in silence.
"It wasn't him," he said calmly.
No Rh-null trace.
No residual signature.
No contamination.
Matter of fact—
There was no sign of that specific bloodline anywhere near Michael's fangs.
Clean.
Too clean.
Which meant—
Michael had not fed on James.
Had not killed him.
Had not even… tasted him.
Interesting.
Blackthorne's grip tightened slightly around the device before he slipped it back into his coat.
His gaze lifted—distant now.
Calculating.
Reassessing.
"Even so…" he murmured softly.
His cane tapped once against the ground.
Tap.
"I will still be watching the vampire."
Because coincidences like this?
Didn't exist.
And he could not allow anything to happen to…
A/N Original draft lenght, 2.5k, this is like 2.39k, i reread it, nothing to major got left out, just a few dirty jokes.