The Bronze wasn’t exactly what I expected, yet it was everything I thought it would be.

I had seen it before—on TV, in fleeting moments that felt distant but familiar. But stepping inside was different. The bass hit harder, rolling under my feet and through my chest. The air smelled like sweat, stale beer, and overlapping perfumes. Dim lighting broke only by bursts of neon and strobes that cast flickering shadows across the crowd.

It was a high schooler’s idea of nightlife, and it worked.

The main floor was a crush of bodies, some moving in sync with the music, others swaying just to be close to someone. A few had drinks—mostly soda, though some definitely held something stronger. The bar was packed with seniors pretending they were old enough to be there. The stage was empty for now, but a live band was clearly on the lineup.

I spotted my friends near a high-top table by the far wall. Tom lounged against it, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on the bar. Megan twirled her straw through melting ice in her cup, her red dress hugging her just enough to suggest she knew exactly how good she looked. Her expression hovered between amusement and impatience.

Emily stood slightly apart, arms crossed, hoodie zipped up like armor. Less uncomfortable than before but still wary. Megan’s usual clique was nowhere in sight, but I caught them laughing too loudly near the bathrooms before disappearing inside.

As I approached, Tom smirked. “Finally. Thought maybe you got lost.”

“Traffic,” I said smoothly.

“You walked.”

“Exactly.”

Megan rolled her eyes. “Are you always like this, or do you just enjoy annoying us?”

I smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She huffed, shaking her head, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of her lips before she turned away.

The music shifted, the bassline dropping low and heavy, threading through the floor and up my spine. The kind of beat designed to move to—steady, pulsing, inviting.

I liked dancing. Always had. It wasn’t something I talked about in this life, but some things didn’t just go away. In my last one, I was the guy who shut down parties, the last one on the floor when the lights flicked on. It wasn’t about showing off—it was about the rhythm, the way everything else blurred into the background when you let yourself sink into it.

Not that I was about to say any of that.

Tom grumbled beside me. “Still think it’s stupid we can’t drink.”

“We’re fifteen,” I pointed out.

“And?”

I shrugged. “And it’s illegal.”

Tom scoffed. “Yeah, and that guy over there definitely looks twenty-one. We could get someone to grab a couple drinks for us.”

“Yeah, and get kicked out or arrested. Or explain to my father why my name’s in a police report.”

Tom groaned. “Fine. Still a stupid rule.”

Megan set her cup down with a sharp clack and stretched, rolling her shoulders. Then she fixed me with a look that practically sparkled with mischief.

“If we’re not drinking, we might as well be doing something fun,” she announced. Before I could ask what that meant, she grabbed my wrist. “Come on, Captain Plain. You owe me a dance.”

I arched a brow. “Do I?”

“You do now,” she shot back, tugging me toward the dance floor.

I could have resisted. Could have made a sarcastic remark. But instead, I let her pull me into the crowd, heat and movement pressing in as we reached the center.

The bass pulsed through the floor, settling into my bones. Dancing was about confidence. If you hesitated, you looked awkward. If you tried too hard, you looked ridiculous. But if you moved like you belonged, people assumed you did.

And I did.

The moment I stepped into the rhythm, it was easy—natural, effortless, like muscle memory kicking in. Megan noticed immediately. Her expression flickered, just for a second, before she adjusted. She’d expected to drag me through a halfhearted shuffle. Instead, she found herself keeping up.

She recovered fast. Credit where it was due—she matched my pace well, fluid and sharp. A silent exchange, a wordless challenge. She didn’t follow so much as adapt, reading my movements and responding without missing a beat.

Her smirk widened slightly. I smirked back, rolling my shoulders with the beat, letting her close the space between us. The crowd blurred around us—just heat and movement, neon flashes against shadow—but I was aware of the way she moved, how she fit into the rhythm like she belonged there.

“All right,” she admitted. “Maybe you’re not completely boring.”

“High praise,” I said dryly, spinning her just to see if she’d trip. She didn’t. Twisted fluidly before stepping back into rhythm.

Her laugh was quick and bright. “Okay, that was smooth.”

The next song slid in seamlessly. Neither of us stopped.

When we returned, Emily hadn’t moved from her spot. but her posture was still stiff, debating whether this night was worth enduring. Megan’s group had returned, their laughter sharper now—the kind exchanged between people who had already assessed the room and picked apart everything worth discussing.

None of it felt wrong.

And yet, my attention pulled elsewhere.

Jake stood near the bar, talking to someone. A girl. Striking—sleek dark hair, sharp features, a dress that skimmed close enough to elegance without looking like she had tried too hard. She stood out in a way that wasn’t entirely intentional but wasn’t accidental either.

But something didn’t sit right.

It was the way she leaned in—just enough to keep Jake engaged, to make it feel like he was the one leading the conversation. The way her fingers trailed idly against the rim of her glass. Calculated.

Too smooth and familiar. I knew her.

Not from life. From a photograph.

The trophy case.

One of those old, grainy black-and-white pictures—the kind most people never stopped to look at.

And she looked exactly like one of the students in those photos.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

That wasn’t possible.

If I was right, she should have graduated decades ago.

But there she was. Laughing. Smiling. Looking very much alive.

I inhaled slowly, steadying my breath, keeping my expression neutral.

Well.

That couldn’t be good.

* * *

I didn’t think. I just moved.

One second, I was standing at the table, gripping my drink, telling myself I was imagining things. The next, I was cutting through the crowd before I could talk myself out of it.

No plan. No strategy. Just instinct.

The bass rattled through my ribs, drowning out second thoughts. I had nothing concrete—just a familiar face and a vague sense of wrongness. But it was enough.

I had seen this before. The slow pull of a spider spinning its web. The moment before a trap snapped shut.

Jake wasn’t in danger yet, but he was drifting toward it.

He leaned in too close, his drink forgotten, hooked on every flicker of her smile, every perfectly timed glance. This wasn’t a conversation. It was a performance.

And he didn’t realize he was the audience.

I moved through the crowd without drawing attention. No rushing. No hesitation. Just walking like I belonged.

The chaotic energy of the dance floor melted into something smoother, more controlled near the bar. Conversations here weren’t shouted—they were leaned into. More intimate.

Jake was there, leaning against the counter, body angled toward her. Relaxed. Comfortable. The easy grin on his face told me he thought he was winning whatever game was being played.

She was letting him think that.

Head tilted, lashes low, a smile just warm enough. One hand rested on the bar, near Jake’s but never quite touching. Not rushing. Just waiting.

I forced a slow breath through my nose, keeping my expression neutral. Relaxed. Like I wasn’t walking a razor’s edge.

I stepped in beside Jake, gripping his shoulder like I had every right to be there.

“Hey, buddy. Need you for a sec.”

Jake barely looked at me. “Dude, seriously? Not the best timing.”

I didn’t let go. “Yeah,” I said, smiling just a little. “That’s kinda the point.”

That got her attention. Her gaze slid to me—assessing, not annoyed. She was trying to place me.

Good.

Jake sighed, exasperated. “Richie, what?”

“You know how it is,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Some people are just better off walking away while they still can.”

The words hung there. Soft. Casual.

Jake didn’t notice.

She did.

Her fingers stilled against her glass. Something flickered behind her eyes—annoyance, curiosity, something darker. Then, just as fast, the smile snapped back into place.

“Oh?” she murmured, voice warm, amused. “Is that right?”

I shrugged. “Call it a friendly suggestion. I do hate to see a good night ruined.”

Her lips parted like she had something to say, something sharp.

I didn’t let her.

I patted Jake’s shoulder, pressing just enough for emphasis. “Come on, pal. Don’t want you missing all the fun.”

Jake groaned but finally peeled himself away from the counter, downing the last of his drink with a frustrated gulp. I turned smoothly, guiding him back toward the table.

I didn’t need to look back.

I felt her watching.

* * *

The rest of the night, my focus was all over the place. Knowing too much meant I couldn’t just let go. Not entirely. Not when I knew what happened when people stopped paying attention.

So, I did what I could. I made my rounds. Checked in on classmates, acquaintances, even vaguely familiar faces. Nothing obvious—just enough to remind people they were seen.

Vampires liked people who wouldn’t be missed.

I wasn’t going to let that happen.

But I couldn’t let it consume me either.

Because this was fun, too.

And I had forgotten what that felt like.

There was something reckless about it. The kind of stupid, carefree joy that came with being young—laughing too loud, dancing too long, existing without thinking about what came next.

I let myself have it. Just a little.

Between check-ins, I danced.

And once I let myself sink into the music, it wasn’t about dropping my guard—it was about syncing with everything around me. The bass in my chest, the shifting bodies, the undercurrent of movement—it all blended together. A rhythm. A pattern.

A moment of clarity wrapped in sound.

Megan caught on immediately.

She smirked. “Ohhh, so this is why you were being all mysterious about coming out tonight. You just wanted an audience.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re just mad you can’t keep up.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, but she matched my pace anyway, sharp, fluid, competitive.

At the edge of the crowd, Emily hovered, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else. I caught her eye, tilted my head in a silent come on. She shook her head.

I made a mental note to check on her later.

For now, I let myself exist in this moment.

* * *

I watched the last cab pull away from the curb, the red taillights vanishing into the dark.

Jake and Ben had left together, already half-laughing about something as they slid into their ride. Megan and Emily had caught another, the former practically buzzing with leftover adrenaline from the dance floor, the latter looking like she was counting the seconds until she could go home and pretend none of this ever happened. Tom had gotten scooped up by his brother leaving me standing outside the Bronze.

Alone.

The realization hit hard and fast. I´d spent the whole night making sure everyone else left in pairs. That no one walked home alone. That no one was easy pickings.

Except now I was standing here, an idiot who had spent the last few hours running damage control and forgot to make sure he had his own exit plan.

"Shit."

It was close to 11 PM. Late, but not so late that the streets were completely empty. A few groups still lingered near the entrance, but they were too wrapped in their own worlds to notice me. I could call a cab. Probably should. But I´d have to wait. And waiting meant standing here, out in the open, where things that noticed when you were alone could get a good look at me.

My house wasn´t that far. A 20 minute walk, maybe.

But 20 minutes alone in Sunnydale might as well be a death sentence.

I clenched my jaw and started walking, keeping my pace casual. Unbothered. Just a guy heading home, not worth noticing. I adjusted my jacket, fingers brushing over the stake tucked into the lining. I’d be fine. I wasn’t some freshman idiot who didn’t know better.

But I knew too much. And that was worse.

The air shifted.

I felt it before I saw anything—the pressure in the night tilting. The way the streetlights buzzed just a little too loud. Like the town itself was holding its breath.

And then came the laugh.

Soft. Amused. Brushing against the edge of hearing like silk.

Every hair on my arms stood on end.

I turned—too slow.

Something slammed into me.

I hit the wall, breath exploding from my lungs as cold fingers wrapped around my throat. Not squeezing yet—just holding. Claiming.

And then she smiled.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured. “You should’ve let it go.”

The girl from the bar. The one who had been working Jake.

Except now, her face was wrong.

Gone was the sleek, effortless beauty. In its place was something sharp. Predatory. Her bones had twisted, her forehead ridged, her eyes golden and slitted like a wolf’s. Her mouth pulled back, lips peeling away from jagged fangs, a grotesque mockery of what she had been before.

I should have seen this coming.

“I was going to let you walk away,” she continued, her nails biting into my skin. “You made things complicated. I don’t like complications.”

My heart pounded. Not fear. Not entirely. It was adrenaline, sharpening everything, making the world feel too crisp, too immediate.

I needed to stall. Vamps liked to talk. That was the only reason I wasn’t dead yet.

So I smiled, even as I fought for air. “Wow,” I rasped. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor. Always heard vamps liked their meals with a little personality."

She scoffed, tilting her head. “Cute. You always this mouthy, or just when you know you’re about to die?”

I swallowed hard, my pulse loud in my ears. “Wouldn’t know. First time.”

Her smile widened, slow and sure. “Little tip for next time—” she leaned in, breath ice-cold against my skin “—don’t get in the way of things you don’t understand.”

Next time.

That was optimistic.

I opened my mouth for another quip, but her grip crushed the thought right out of me. My chest seized, air suddenly harder to come by.

Yeah. Bad sign.

She leaned in, fangs glinting.

I moved fast. My fingers closed around the small glass vial in my pocket, and before she could register it—I smashed it against her face.

Holy water.

She screamed.

The sound split the night, raw and ragged, as her skin sizzled on impact. She recoiled, clutching at her cheek, but she wasn’t down. Just pissed.

I lunged to run—too slow.

Her hand shot out, and then she bit.

The pain hit like lightning. White-hot, sharp, sinking into my neck in a rush of fire and pressure.

Fuck.

She had me. Pinned. Trapped. Her grip was iron, her weight pressing me against the alley wall. I could feel it—the pull. The drag of something inside me being stolen.

Panic roared through me. Think, damn it. THINK.

The pentagram. The blood. The magic.

Panic sharpened my focus in ways that meditation never could. My hand found the pentagram, the metal searing against my skin like a brand.

What happened next wasn’t a spell, not really. Just raw willpower, emotion, instinct. The energy surged from the symbol, feeding off the wound—my blood, my life, my rage.

And then it burned.

Not normal warmth—scalding, blistering heat, a wildfire rolling through me and into her.

She shrieked.

Her body jerked away, convulsing as she stumbled back. Her hands flew to her mouth, her face contorting in agony. She tried to spit, to claw at her own lips, but it was too late.

Her eyes snapped up to mine—wide, furious, terrified.

"What—" she choked, "what did you—?"

I wasn’t about to answer.

I pulled the stake from my jacket.

She lunged.

I drove it into her chest.

Her body froze. Her lips curled in a silent snarl—then she exploded into ash.

The alley was silent.

Just me.

Just my racing pulse, my shaking hands, the dull throb in my neck where she had bitten me.

I stared at the pile of dust at my feet.

Then I exhaled.

“Well.” I wiped the ash from my jacket. “That sucked.”