[Chapter 12. Casual Morning]

  Searanox kept eating his muesli, spoonful after spoonful, the rhythmic scrape of metal against ceramic filling the small kitchen. The taste remained familiar on his tongue—oats, honey, dried fruits—the texture unchanged after all this. He sat with deliberate slowness, as if the previous conversation had been nothing more than a fleeting thought, his posture relaxed but betraying nothing of the urgency that had just passed between them. As he stood to leave, his hand brushed against Iris's shoulder, the fur beneath his fingers surprisingly soft despite the coarser outer coat.

  "You may eat whatever you like," he said, his voice even. "We won't be coming back here."

  His attention shifted to the glowing notification in his field of vision—43 Exp. The pitiful number barely registered as he dismissed the Drone from his awareness, the notification fading like a dying ember.

  Halfway to the bathroom, he paused and turned back, the tile cool beneath his bare feet.

  "And Iris, pack some for the road," he said, his voice low but clear, carrying through the morning stillness.

  He stepped into the bathroom, and soon the sound of the shower filled the morning silence, the spray hitting the porcelain with a steady hiss. Water streamed over him, brief comfort against what was coming, the heat seeping into his muscles, easing tensions he hadn't realized he was carrying. Minutes passed while Searanox stood with eyes closed, face tilted to the stream, letting the water wash away not just dirt but something deeper. He slicked his wet hair back with his hands, the dark strands falling away from his forehead like a curtain.

  When the water stopped, he drew a deep breath as the last droplets hit his skin, steam rising from his shoulders in the cool bathroom air. In one smooth motion, he wiped water from his face before opening his eyes. Sleep had fully retreated. He felt rested, more so than in recent memory, a clarity of thought that was almost unnerving. The mirror showed a face both his and not his—a Dhampir, a predator, a Progenitor. Pale skin, sharpened features, a predatory glint in his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday, or if it had, it was dimmer somehow.

  It was him, but something more as well, something ancient and dangerous stirring beneath the surface.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Returning to the kitchen, he found Iris standing before the open refrigerator, her back to him, a silhouette against the white light. She was eating, quick and efficient, the soft crunch filling the quiet room, her movements economical and precise. He cleared his throat. She turned, muzzle glistening, crumbs of raw beef clinging to the dark fur around her lips, her amber eyes alert and watchful.

  "I have prepared provisions as you requested," she said, her voice low and steady, amber eyes meeting his. "But I'm not sure where to put it."

  She gestured toward a collection of wrapped items on the counter—raw meat, cheese, bread. Practical. Hasty. The provisions would last them several days if rationed properly, a small comfort in uncertain times.

  He crossed to the counter, the hint of a smile touching his lips, a rare expression that didn't quite reach his eyes.

  "A bag should work."

  Beneath the counter, he found a shopping bag filled with empty cans. He upended it. The clatter and crash as they hit the floor sent a sharp spike through his skull, far louder than anticipated. He flinched at the assault on his ears, the sound reverberating painfully in his enhanced hearing. A brief flicker of discomfort crossed his face before he could mask it. The enhanced senses would take getting used to, another adjustment in a series of transformations he hadn't asked for but couldn't deny.

  He set the empty bag on the counter, the plastic crinkling softly under his touch.

  "That should do," he said. "I'll get dressed."

  He turned and walked back to the bedroom, leaving Iris to pack the provisions. Dark jeans first, then a black hoodie. The familiar fabric settled against his skin, a mundane comfort amidst the new reality. His gaze fell on the bed, sheets twisted in memory of the night—strange yet not unwelcome.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Iris was already by the door. The shopping bag, now filled with their provisions, sat on the floor beside her. The strange assortment made for a practical if unconventional picnic, a silent preparation for violence to come. Her silhouette was framed against the morning light, calm and focused.

  He picked up the bag, the weight settling in his hand with familiar comfort.

  "Let's go, Iris," he said, his voice low, steady. "We have a long road ahead of us, and a lot of... work to do."

  Searanox pulled the door open. Bright sunlight flooded the entryway, a stark, unwelcome intrusion. A sharp, piercing pain shot through his eyes, followed by a wave of dizziness. He flinched back, his vision swimming.

  "uhh~ Fuck, that is deeply uncomfortable..."

  He slammed the door shut, plunging the room back into shadow. He moved to the sideboard, pulling open the drawer. His fingers found the familiar frames of his sunglasses. He slid them slowly onto his face, leaning against the wood as he cradled his head.

  "That will take some time to get use too, it even stings afterwards."

  With the dark lenses shielding his eyes, he opened the door again. The sunlight was now a muted, bearable glow. He stepped out into the morning, Iris following close behind.