“Oh, hello, Mister Crohn! How nice to see you again. It seems that fate keeps trying to push us together, wouldn’t you say?”

In the unlit room, Victor could see John so vividly: the crooked turn of his smile, the twinkle of life in his eye. He sat on the bed and clapped with hushed laughter, encouraging John to continue as he danced about the room, hopping from one foot to the other. The laughter between them grew and grew until it could no longer be contained in this room alone.

Sure enough, others noticed.

John slipped, his sole, sliding in a sideways twirl, losing traction with the carpet so that he nearly fell. Victor tensed, ready to catch him, but John seemed to take no notice and continued with his merry dancing. Victor relaxed, paying less attention to each micro slip as John bounced around. But the air in the room began to compress, John’s merriment began to decrease, and every hop seemed more and more mechanical. That twinkle of light vanished from John’s eye and suddenly he was only a twirling puppet on a loose string, his mind seemingly vacant, his mouth slack, allowing for drool to spill off his lips.

Victor stood to pounce, sensing the short current, but was too far to grab John by the shirt collar. He missed by a mere hair and John fell like a domino, eyes rolled into the back of his head, which crashed into the corner of a vanity table and split wide open. Victor fell on top of him in his failed rescue and watched the blood pool around his dear friend’s head. The red rushed beneath Victor’s fingertips—

And his hunger ignited.

The door opened and ladies’ giggles entered, hesitated, then screamed at what Victor could only imagine was the sight of a crazed-looking monster crouched atop an unconscious man leaking red fluid onto a cream carpet. Victor glared at the ladies—their mouths were contorted in such hideous horror!—then took action, lifting John’s body, laying him across his shoulders, and charging out the mansion.

He rested John in his Bentley parked out front and sped home before the blood filling the passenger seat could truly trigger his rage. Once in his home office, Victor placed John on the couch and paced about the room, knowing that if he did not act quickly, his dearest friend—and closest thing to family for centuries—would perish.

John’s heartbeat was slowing. Still, Victor refused to share in the spoils of his immortality. Instead, through a hazy, insane thought about the healing properties of his blood, he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a syringe, and emptied himself into John.

Victor waited. John did not respond.

Victor waited further, watching over the body, unable to do anything about the bleeding without risking an insatiable appetite, until the gurgle in his stomach forced him to leave. He retired to his bedroom, snuffed out the scent of blood by inhaling chemicals, and fell asleep along with his hunger.