We all have our ups and downs. High highs, low lows. Barely anything in the middle.

Vampires gets high when they feed. With mortal blood in their veins, they feel as if for a second, they have all the power of a vampire and the happiness only mortals could achieve. They are as close to living in that moment as they ever could be. A state of utter euphoria. Like a drug. In this state, they take risks they never would. Get into fights they'd never dare to start sober. Commit acts of love and happiness they wish they could. They even look alive.

When they don't feed, the connection to the dark powers that bind them, enslave them, sucking this happiness out of them. Their minds turn bitter, turn to despair. When they are like this, there is no positive emotion within them of any kind. They simply cannot feel it, and their souls know that this kind of existence is simply wrong, and unnatural. They gaze into the abyss from whence their power came, feeling themselves drawn to this void that will consume all life, in the end. They are dead, but even they fear this entropy despite the tightrope of power. Immeasurable mobility, strength, regeneration and awareness of their surroundings on one end. On the other, an infinite life barely lived as they crave to feed on their kind and kin, weaknesses of all kinds placed upon them by the abyss that forged their new selves. And all know that if the cold void in their dreams touch them, they are lost forever. And so they feed, to keep away from this void.

Many vampires draw from the power of this void to stave off their deaths. Their desire for immortality fulfilled, at the cost of knowing that they can only extend that existence at the costs of others. Many lose themselves to the cycle of euphoria and despair. They live in the moment, craving one feeding after the next, running from boogey who come to wipe them from the face of the earth.

But not all live like that. Some pick the road less travelled by.

---

A heavy set man sat down in a chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket. The rains were not merciful this night, as the gentle clattering on the windows surged with the winds. In the reflection, only a single light remained on, behind him, with the gentle glow of a mother's caress. His own reflection was barely visible. A silhouette, dark and broad, stared back at him.

On the thirty-fifth floor, the penthouse, he had been cooped up by orders of his superiors. Word had leaked on the streets of his arrival to those who knew of what haunted the scum of this city. Over the last month or so, gang associated murders have skyrocketed. Patterns stuck out so blatantly that it didn't feel a mob war of any kind. This was a calling card. Someone was looking for attention. The visceral and violent deaths now ran up to thirty-four as of yesterday, the number spread across three months with a rising amount over the last one.

While a deep cleaning of the streets was not something regrettable in and of itself, the issue was that it was unsanctioned. Unsanctioned murders on the streets are unacceptable. The aggro a story like this could accumulate would blow open a tidal wave of misery the world had never faced, from which it couldn't recover.

By itself, this sounded like an exaggeration. If only it simply was.

The man had committed the thirty-fifth murder, same as the others. Painstaking details were replicated and no expenses were spared. The tearing wounds in the neck, in the middle of the night at the center of its territory. No cameras, no witnesses. Just a quick call, a gurgling gasp and the ripping of flesh. No blood on the scene. Last but not least, an invitation to the current location of the man who sat patiently.

As he was about to check his watch, a knocking on the glass balcony door disturbed this. Outside stood a drenched woman in a raincoat, gazing through the door. The man got up, unlocked the door and held it open. She did not move in.

"So," She almost yelled with a raised voice, making herself heard as the winds swept the lashing rain without a care, "this was you, right?"

He gestured for her to enter, which she quickly did. As he closed the door, with one fell swoop, she unbuttoned her raincoat and moved to the door to hang it there. A braided ponytail came away from the hood, a leather jacket and jeans from under it. A stark contrast to the man's three piece suit.

After leaving her coat on the rack, she looked him up and down.

"I don't appreciate people trying to take my gig."

"The Conclave does not appreciate your activities in this city, Miss..."

"Call me Jean."

"Jean. Sure. Then I'm Logan."

"Subtle."

"Jean, you have the attention of those whose attention you don't want."

"Good. Took you guys long enough. Though I wouldn't have minded if you dropped by a little later."

"That would have gathered even more attention."

"As if the invitation wouldn't."

"We figured you were proud of your handiwork."

"Not really. Just a matter of convenience."

"Convenience? That's what blood banks are for."

"Listen, jar-head. Blood banks are for people who need that stuff in surgeries. I'm not taking blood from those who willingly give it. I'm taking it from those who don't deserve it."

"Who gave you the right to play judge, jury and executioner?"

"Who gave you the right to intervene? Who watches the watcher?"

"Those who understand the order of how things are better than you."

"I suppose so. No one ever really 'explained' any of this stuff. This whole mess only happened pretty recently. I'm new to all of it."

"Quite the mess, indeed. You have gained the attention of the masses. You target selection has left you in their good graces."

"I did more about the gang problem in one month than the police that's supposed to protect and serve us did in over a decade. Heh. I've done more noticeable and useful things for the place I was raised in in death than I did in life. I don't really plan on stopping."

"Very altruistic. The crusader who bloodies their hands so that others may stay clean. You're not the first to start out this way. I've seen it time and time again."

"Oh? How does it end?"

The man pulled open his jacket on both sides. Dozens of tiny vials of holy water on one side and three stakes, one of iron, one of silver and one of wood on the other.

"Speaking of judge, jury and executioner."

"You know what these do?" The man asked.

"I'm aware." The woman said, now a little more shaken.

"You're a recent convert. That's good. It means you can be reasoned with. For now. But your link to the void is strengthening. Soon, the hunger will consume you."

"The void?"

"The darkness in your dreams that seeks to consume you. It stays its distance when you drink blood."

"What do you know about this?"

"This 'Tobias' didn't tell you much about what you are, did he?"

"No."

"Then I will take on a new role, tonight. And if you take to the lessons I'm willing to teach you, we can discuss the mess you made and how to handle it."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll handle you. You get two minutes to decide. That's more mercy than you gave the people you killed."

"Why do you get to decide who lives and who dies? What have you done to get to do that?"

"I will explain, if you accept my offer."

"This doesn't feel fair."

"Life is unfair. Why does undeath have to be any different? The ones you put in the morgue didn't have a fair chance either. The scales will be balanced. One minute and thirty seconds. Choose, before a decision is made for you."