She wore a black and grey utilitarian jacket over a plain undershirt, the sleeves deliberately rolled up past her elbows. Her tracksuit pants swished softly with each step—practical, comfortable, a little out of place, like something an emo teen might wear if they skipped the eyeliner, and attempted suicide. And then there were the sunglasses—black, angular, and fairly new. Though she’d never worn a pair of sunglasses before.
The glasses, like her freshly styled wig, were from her mother. Not like she needs to know that. But Sonetto did think that it was really weird that her mother had a replica wig of her same hairstyle. Convenient, but weird.
And Sonetto’s newfound sensitivity to light, the sunglasses weren’t just for style—they were more a necessity if anything.
But even now, under an overcast sky, the light didn’t seem so bad. The usual sting that once crept in behind her eyes was absent. Gentler, somehow. Almost like her body had begun adjusting to it.
Yet still, she remembered the pain—sharp and blinding, like knives behind her eyelids. The memory alone was enough to tighten her jaw. So she kept her sunglasses on to shield her eyes from the sun, and so people wouldn’t see her new purple ones.
She kept walking, her shoes treading softly against the pavement as she made her way through the quieter side streets, heading toward the local hospital.
Ever since Carol’s incursion—since Sonetto became… whatever she was now—Sonetto’s curiosity seemed to have gotten the better of her.
She figured if the taste of blood did something to her—stirred up some craving, some hunger—then she’d know. And if it did? Well, she’d admit herself into treatment. Then that would be that.
Weirdly enough, most hospitals in London had this ‘little’ exploit: you didn’t need any documentation to buy expired or surplus blood bags.
Because a ton of weirdos just began asking to buy blood in the same week it became buyable, that the staff just gave up trying to keep records because so many different people kept pestering medical staff about it. Half-vampires, fringe types, goth kids trying to one-up each other—it didn’t matter. You could stroll in, pay cash, and walk out with a chilled bag of blood like you were grabbing lunch.
Sonetto thought it was incredibly stupid. Anyone could do it—even vampires—since no one was required to give any sort of identification. You’d have cameras, but they never followed up on those unless something went very wrong.
The hospital stood like just another relic from another time— massive, weather-worn, and quietly looming. Built sometime in the early Victorian era, it looked every little bit its age. The architecture carried that heavy Victorian presence. Tall, arched windows with dark panes that barely reflected light, intricate stonework curling like veins across the stone walls, and even gargoyles carved at each corner, frozen mid-snarl as if daring anyone to enter.
Sonetto stood at the front gates, her breath visible in the chilly air, taking in the structure before her. The classic brickwork was a deep reddish-brown, aged and uneven from years of exposure, and bordered by iron fences painted a dark green that had long since faded into near-black. The paint was peeling in places, revealing rust underneath.
Walking in, Sonetto slipped off her new sunglasses and immediately winced. The lighting, which seemed dim and clinical to everyone else, hit her like a flashbang. It was as if you accidentally turned on a flashlight right in front of your eyes. But still, her eyes adjusted, and quicker than she expected.
So she took off her glasses, figuring that in this kind of lighting, no one would really notice anything strange about her eyes anyway.
The hospital lobby wasn’t exactly bustling. In fact, it was eerily quiet, save for the occasional cough or mumble. Most of the people scattered around the waiting area looked less like patients and more like the strung-out remnants of London’s underbelly—faces hollowed by addiction, skin marked with the signs of long-term abuse. It didn’t look like anyone had come here with a sprained ankle or a broken arm.
Sonetto kept moving, eyes scanning for some kind of sign—anything that hinted at where they sold the blood bags. She was certain it was around here somewhere. So Sonetto kept looking, but fell short.
There was nothing obvious. No sign. No shady nurse in a corner booth. Just the drab walls and the low buzz of fluorescent lights.
Sighing, she slid her sunglasses back on, the world darkening comfortably around her. Then she made her way toward the front desk, determined to get this over with.
“Umm… hi. I need to buy some blood—do I talk to you for that?” Sonetto asked, trying to sound casual, though she knew how sketchy she probably looked.
The man at the counter barely blinked. He looked like he’d been here since the place was built—burnt out, eyes glazed, posture somewhere between slumped and folded in on itself. He gave her a long, slow glance over the rim of his monitor, clearly unimpressed. Sonetto didn’t blame him. With her dark sunglasses, grey-and-black jacket, and low voice, she probably looked like an Off-Seller—one of those underground types who bought cheap blood from hospitals to flip it for twice the price in alleyways and clubs.
“Another Off-Seller?” he muttered, not even waiting for a reply. With a sigh so tired it sounded rehearsed, he reached under the counter and slid a paper across the desk to her.
It was a price sheet. Each blood type was listed neatly in a table, with minor notes about freshness and storage. At the top, in a bold serif font, it read:
“Blood Type Listing”
And just beneath that:
“Any Non-Half-Vampire individuals attempting to purchase blood are to be reported to law enforcement.”
Sonetto stared at him from behind her glasses, unmoving. The tinted lenses masked her eyes, but not the quiet judgement in her silence. She glanced back down at the paper.
Yeah, they’d definitely stopped enforcing such a rule—not for a while at least. The print was faded, and the corners curled like it had been handled too many times without care.
Sonetto kept her head low, her gaze trailing the faded pricing sheet in her hand as she walked. The list was printed in simple black ink, but there was something strangely clinical about it—like reading off a menu for something that shouldn't be consumed. The prices were handwritten, updated in pen, and some scribbled over with new numbers.
“Blood Type Listing – Pricing Sheet” (Paper Money Only)
- O- … ￡50 / 250ml
- O+ … ￡40 / 250ml
- A- … ￡32 / 250ml
- A+ … ￡38 / 250ml
- B- … ￡21 / 250ml
- B+ … ￡24 / 250ml
- AB- … ￡23 / 250ml
- AB+ … ￡19 / 250ml
Looking at the listing, Sonetto remembered Heather saying that O- was the best type, so she decided on that. “Could I just grab a bag of O-negative?” Sonetto asked, her voice quiet but steady.
Stolen story; please report.
The man behind the counter paused, giving her a longer look this timeless, annoyed, more curious. It was the kind of look you’d give someone who didn’t quite fit the mould. Maybe he’d figured her for an Offseller at first, but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, he didn’t ask questions. He just nodded silently, turned, and disappeared into the back.
She thumbed past a few crumpled receipts, a transit card, and a half-punched loyalty card from a kebab shop she’d never return to. Her fingers finally found the crumpled fifty-pound note tucked awkwardly behind an old photo strip.
By the time she looked up, the man had returned, holding a sealed bag of O-negative between two fingers like it was nothing more than a takeaway order. The label was simple—typed, with no branding, just the blood type and a batch number. It looked colder than it felt.
He placed it on the counter with a muted thump, then eyed the note in her hand.
Sonetto slid the crumpled fifty-pound note across the counter with a quiet rustle, her fingers lingering for a second longer than they needed to. She hesitated, eyes hidden behind her dark sunglasses, and lowered her voice.
“Do you have anything more... discreet?” she asked, the last word barely making it past her lips.
The man sighed long, weary, like someone who’d done this a hundred times and still couldn’t care less. Without a word, he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a plain, crinkled paper bag, thrusting it toward Sonetto.
Then, as if she’d already ceased to exist, he pulled out his phone and dropped his gaze to the screen, thumbing through it with a bored expression.
Sonetto carefully placed the blood bag into the paper sack, her movements slow and deliberate, trying not to draw more attention than she already had. But she could feel it—the eyes.
Once outside, she slipped through the streets until she found a narrow alley—one of those places nobody passed through unless they had to. The brick walls on either side were mottled with age and grime. A single, flickering light buzzed high above the alley, casting the passage in stuttered, half-hearted illumination.
She stopped halfway down, finally out of sight, and reached into the paper bag.
Fingers brushing cool plastic, she drew the blood bag into the dim light. It sloshed slightly, the deep red glinting like rubies in the glow of the alley lamp. She just stared at it… No thirst. No instinct pulling her toward it.
At this point, it all felt… pointless. But she’d come too far to stop now.
With a resigned breath, she twisted the plastic nozzle at the top of the bag, the subtle click sounding far louder in the narrow alleyway than it should have. She brought it to her lips, hesitated for the briefest moment, then took a small sip.
The taste hit her instantly—sharp, metallic, and foul.
It was like drinking rust and rot wrapped in something long dead. Her throat clenched against it, but it was too late. The blood slid down, heavy and alien, and her body reacted before her mind could even catch up.
Sonetto doubled over, the paper bag falling from her hands as she dropped to her knees. Her stomach heaved violently, retching onto the cracked pavement of the alley. The blood didn’t want to stay down—and neither did she. It was like her entire being rejected what she'd just consumed.
Her sunglasses, jolted loose by the force of her collapse, tumbled off and landed near a broken, soot-streaked mirror leaning against the brick wall. She wiped her mouth with her own hand, then caught her reflection in the cracked glass.
Blood was smeared across her chin and lips, her face pale and shaken—but it was her eyes that froze her in place.
One eye glimmered deep violet.
The other was blue. A bright, crystalline blue that almost shimmered in the low light of the alley.
Sonetto blinked rapidly. Once. Twice. Still, one purple, one blue. Heterochromia was what it was called—her two differing eye colours, which were now different to each other.
Her breath caught in her throat. The cold air stung her lungs as she knelt there, surrounded by the mess she had made, the blood, the silence.
Whatever was changing in her, was now accelerating, now that she drank that blood.
Her spine arched as her head whipped backward involuntarily, her mouth open in a silent gasp as her entire body felt like it was revolting against itself.
The wig slipped.
As her head jerked back, her wig fell off, tumbling onto the damp alley floor. Her real hair—a silvery white—spilled free in stark contrast to the dark hoodie she wore. The air had bit at her scalp, but she didn’t notice, as the pain was getting worse, rising in jagged pulses, like lightning crawling across her skin from the inside out.
Sonetto grit her teeth, her nails digging into her palms as she tries to fight it. She pressed her back to the wall, drawing ragged breaths through clenched teeth. Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her yet again, but she forced herself upright, one trembling hand bracing against the bricks.
Sonetto kept clenching her jaw, teeth grinding against the wave of pain as it surged through her like wildfire. Her limbs trembled, her breath shallow and erratic. Every muscle screamed. Her vision blurred at the edges, her ears ringing with the remnants of some internal storm.
She smelled it. Something sharp, rich, primal. It was meat.
The smell caused the convulsions to lessen. Her spine slowly uncoiled from its contorted arch, and she collapsed forward, catching herself with one hand on the pavement. Her other hand hovered in the air for a second, fingers twitching like a marionette pulled by invisible strings.
She drew in a shaky breath, and the scent hit her again, stronger now.
It was almost hypnotic, pulling her forward with an invisible thread. Her feet moved without thought, like she was being led in a trance. The world around her narrowed, and quieted until it was just her and that smell—rich, animal, undeniable.
It led her to a dumpster behind a butcher’s shop. The alley was narrow, and the kind people avoided it, even in daylight. Sonetto stood still for a moment, as if weighing her next move—but her body already knew the answer.
She popped open the rusted hatch, a waft of cold meat and fat rushing up to greet her. Her stomach lurched—but not with revulsion. With hunger.
Reaching in, she rummaged past styrofoam trays and plastic wrapping until her hand landed on something solid. She pulled out a raw steak, still sealed in cloudy plastic. It was out of date. The edge of the packaging was torn. Something about it should have stopped her. But it didn’t.
She ripped through the plastic like paper and sank her teeth into the cold, raw flesh. The moment it hit her tongue, her whole body shivered—not from cold, but from pleasure. The flavour was overwhelming. Rich, and alive. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t cooked, or that it had likely been tossed out hours ago. To her, it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
Then, just as her teeth tore into the fifth bite, something inside her snapped.
A jolt of clarity cut through the haze like cold water over fire. Sonetto froze mid-chew, her jaw stiff. Her wide eyes stared down at the half-eaten slab of meat in her hand, now slick with saliva. “What the hell am I doing?!”
Her body recoiled before her brain could catch up, spitting the chunk of raw meat onto the pavement, her breaths now ragged and rapid. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach, not from the taste, but from how wrong this was.
Something about the blood had triggered something in her. Was there something in the blood? A chemical, some sort of contaminant? No… it couldn’t have been that. Whatever it was, the reaction had been too fast, too visceral. It hit the moment it touched her throat.
Was it some kind of biological reaction?
She couldn’t say for sure, and that absolutely terrified her.
Still breathless, panic churning in her chest like a storm, Sonetto struggled to make sense of what was happening—what she was becoming. Her thoughts were a blur, her senses on fire. That was when she noticed it—her wig had slipped off, the cool air brushing against her exposed hair.
Given how her entire body had been convulsing less than two minutes ago, the cool air through her silver-white hair was almost comforting. The calm that followed, however fleeting, felt like a mercy to her.
But it didn’t last.
A sudden vibration buzzed against her thigh. Sharp. Jarring. Her body tensed again, and she instinctively reached into her pocket, fingers fumbling for the familiar shape. Her phone.
The screen lit up. It was Heather.