The first time Cara saw the woman, she was dancing alone under the blue strobe, a shadow among shadows, swaying as if craving not music but oblivion. Most nights, Club Halo throbbed with the selfish hunger of the living: bass-heavy electronica, sweat, whispered secrets, fleeting kisses in the dark. Cara ruled it from the balcony like a queen, black lipstick, sharp eyes, her hair a twist of midnight silk. But tonight, the air was colder. Spine-prickling.
She watched the stranger drift through the crowd—high cheekbones, haunted eyes. The kind of beauty that left a bruise. She never once smiled. When the rest of the room flickered with laughter and neon, this woman sipped nothing, kept one hand resting over the hollow at her throat, as if something were missing there.
It was after three when Cara discovered her in a back hallway, some glitch in the system leaving half the corridor in darkness. The woman was hunched by the emergency exit, shuddering violently.
Cara approached, instinct and curiosity mixing in dangerous ways. “Hey, you—are you all right?”
The woman didn’t answer, just stared at her with eyes so dark they drank the light. Panic fluttered in Cara’s chest.
“What’s your name?” she asked, voice lowering. “Are you hurt?”
Suddenly, the woman recoiled, pressing herself so close to the wall Cara feared she’d try to disappear into it. But her gaze lingered on the throbbing vein at Cara’s wrist—a look Cara recognized. Hunger, desperate and raw.
“Look, whatever it is, let me help you.” She slid to the ground beside her, offering her wrist. She didn’t quite know why; she’d spent years scraping her way to the top by trusting no one. Yet, at that moment, compassion overrode caution.
The woman’s nostrils flared. She cowered, her fangs glinting—yes, fangs, unmistakable in a flash of moonlight. Her hands curled into claws. But when Cara pressed her wrist closer, the woman whimpered and shrank away, shaking violently.
“It’s okay,” Cara whispered. “I trust you.” The words emerged half-choked, the thrill of fear mixing with strange tenderness.
Their eyes met. Something in the stranger’s gaze splintered; need warred with shame, the ache of loneliness so naked it undid something in Cara’s heart. Then, at last, trembling with restraint, the woman grabbed Cara’s wrist. Her mouth closed over the skin—first gently, then, as if something inside her snapped, with a swift, practiced bite.
Pain lanced quick and sharp—but also, strangely, relief. The vampire sucked only briefly, taking mere drops, just enough to stop shaking. Cara watched, fascinated by the raw gratitude in her eyes.
When she had finished, the woman released Cara’s wrist, licked the wound closed, and slumped against the concrete.
“Why did you do that?” the vampire rasped, voice ruined by hunger and shame. “I never wanted—”
Cara pressed fingers to her lips, urging silence. “I know you didn’t.” She pressed her palm to the fading sting on her wrist, a jolt of courage blooming inside her. “What’s your name?”
After a moment, the woman whispered, “Eriya.”
They sat in silence, listening to the muffled thunder of music. Cara felt a shift, tiny but real—like the earth had tilted minutely on its axis.
***
That was the beginning. Eriya appeared again the following night—sunset sharp on her jaw, eyes pleading for forgiveness as she waited by the service entrance. Cara led her to the stockroom, away from curious eyes. She brought her water, then tea, then finally a thin-bladed scalpel sterilized with shaking hands. Eriya always took only a drop, lips pressed to skin with reverence rather than greed.
In those quiet, secret hours, Eriya confessed her story in fragments. How she’d hidden for centuries. How the city had changed, outgrowing its monsters. How hunger had become agony now, not power.
Cara kept Eriya’s secret. She told no one about the vampire who came hungry to Club Halo after hours. She watched the shadows deepen beneath her own eyes, the way her heartbeat tripped when she saw Eriya waiting.
One night, a figure lingered at the bar—a man with cold, dead eyes and a scar through his left earlobe. He whispered Eriya’s name. When she arrived later, Cara saw fear in her for the first time.
Tonight, when Eriya took her blood, her fingers trembled. “He’s found me. The hunter.”
They weighed options—run, stay, hide. At last the idea came: Halo as sanctuary. Not just for revelers—the vulnerable, the hunted, the monstrous.
It was Cara’s turn to bleed, her wrist throbbing with promise and peril. “Let them come,” she said, voice fierce, “but they’ll have to get through me first.”
***
The hunter came at midnight, silver gleaming beneath his coat. The security guards never saw his blade. But Eriya was waiting, and so was Cara, her fear blazing into something larger.
There was a fight. Cara remembered the blur of motion, the way Eriya snarled, how she flung herself between her and death. Something inside Cara shattered then—not fear, but certainty: she loved this strange, aching creature.
When the hunter fell, Eriya was bloodied, exhausted. Cara’s wrist found her again—not as a gift, but a covenant.
Afterward—sirens in the distance, dawn leaking in—they stood amid spilled glass and blood. Eriya brushed her lips to Cara’s wrist, so light it was almost a benediction.
“You saved me,” she whispered.
Cara smiled, knowing she would do so again and again, with blood and with love. In the dark, sacred underworld of Halo, two monsters—one old, one new—became something more. And as the city spun on just above them, neither of them ever felt truly hungry again.
This story was generated by user jess.jessie0 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
Prompt: Write a long story about a young nightclub owner who offered her blood to a vampire. The young club owner saw the vampire back away in fear and knew she didn't mean to hurt her. Still, the woman saw the hunger in her eyes and, not quite knowing why, wanted to help her and moved her wrist closer to her mouth. Finally, she noticed something inside the vampire had snapped and bit her wrist, but only took a few drops of blood.
Response: The first time Cara saw the woman, she was dancing alone under the blue strobe, a shadow among shadows, swaying as if craving not music but oblivion. Most nights, Club Halo throbbed with the selfish hunger of the living: bass-heavy electronica, sweat, whispered secrets, fleeting kisses in the dark. Cara ruled it from the balcony like a queen, black lipstick, sharp eyes, her hair a twist of midnight silk. But tonight, the air was colder. Spine-prickling. She watched the stranger drift through the crowd—high cheekbones, haunted eyes. The kind of beauty that left a bruise. She never once smiled. When the rest of the room flickered with laughter and neon, this woman sipped nothing, kept one hand resting over the hollow at her throat, as if something were missing there. It was after three when Cara discovered her in a back hallway, some glitch in the system leaving half the corridor in darkness. The woman was hunched by the emergency exit, shuddering violently. Cara approached, instinct and curiosity mixing in dangerous ways. “Hey, you—are you all right?” The woman didn’t answer, just stared at her with eyes so dark they drank the light. Panic fluttered in Cara’s chest. “What’s your name?” she asked, voice lowering. “Are you hurt?” Suddenly, the woman recoiled, pressing herself so close to the wall Cara feared she’d try to disappear into it. But her gaze lingered on the throbbing vein at Cara’s wrist—a look Cara recognized. Hunger, desperate and raw. “Look, whatever it is, let me help you.” She slid to the ground beside her, offering her wrist. She didn’t quite know why; she’d spent years scraping her way to the top by trusting no one. Yet, at that moment, compassion overrode caution. The woman’s nostrils flared. She cowered, her fangs glinting—yes, fangs, unmistakable in a flash of moonlight. Her hands curled into claws. But when Cara pressed her wrist closer, the woman whimpered and shrank away, shaking violently. “It’s okay,” Cara whispered. “I trust you.” The words emerged half-choked, the thrill of fear mixing with strange tenderness. Their eyes met. Something in the stranger’s gaze splintered; need warred with shame, the ache of loneliness so naked it undid something in Cara’s heart. Then, at last, trembling with restraint, the woman grabbed Cara’s wrist. Her mouth closed over the skin—first gently, then, as if something inside her snapped, with a swift, practiced bite. Pain lanced quick and sharp—but also, strangely, relief. The vampire sucked only briefly, taking mere drops, just enough to stop shaking. Cara watched, fascinated by the raw gratitude in her eyes. When she had finished, the woman released Cara’s wrist, licked the wound closed, and slumped against the concrete. “Why did you do that?” the vampire rasped, voice ruined by hunger and shame. “I never wanted—” Cara pressed fingers to her lips, urging silence. “I know you didn’t.” She pressed her palm to the fading sting on her wrist, a jolt of courage blooming inside her. “What’s your name?” After a moment, the woman whispered, “Eriya.” They sat in silence, listening to the muffled thunder of music. Cara felt a shift, tiny but real—like the earth had tilted minutely on its axis. *** That was the beginning. Eriya appeared again the following night—sunset sharp on her jaw, eyes pleading for forgiveness as she waited by the service entrance. Cara led her to the stockroom, away from curious eyes. She brought her water, then tea, then finally a thin-bladed scalpel sterilized with shaking hands. Eriya always took only a drop, lips pressed to skin with reverence rather than greed. In those quiet, secret hours, Eriya confessed her story in fragments. How she’d hidden for centuries. How the city had changed, outgrowing its monsters. How hunger had become agony now, not power. Cara kept Eriya’s secret. She told no one about the vampire who came hungry to Club Halo after hours. She watched the shadows deepen beneath her own eyes, the way her heartbeat tripped when she saw Eriya waiting. One night, a figure lingered at the bar—a man with cold, dead eyes and a scar through his left earlobe. He whispered Eriya’s name. When she arrived later, Cara saw fear in her for the first time. Tonight, when Eriya took her blood, her fingers trembled. “He’s found me. The hunter.” They weighed options—run, stay, hide. At last the idea came: Halo as sanctuary. Not just for revelers—the vulnerable, the hunted, the monstrous. It was Cara’s turn to bleed, her wrist throbbing with promise and peril. “Let them come,” she said, voice fierce, “but they’ll have to get through me first.” *** The hunter came at midnight, silver gleaming beneath his coat. The security guards never saw his blade. But Eriya was waiting, and so was Cara, her fear blazing into something larger. There was a fight. Cara remembered the blur of motion, the way Eriya snarled, how she flung herself between her and death. Something inside Cara shattered then—not fear, but certainty: she loved this strange, aching creature. When the hunter fell, Eriya was bloodied, exhausted. Cara’s wrist found her again—not as a gift, but a covenant. Afterward—sirens in the distance, dawn leaking in—they stood amid spilled glass and blood. Eriya brushed her lips to Cara’s wrist, so light it was almost a benediction. “You saved me,” she whispered. Cara smiled, knowing she would do so again and again, with blood and with love. In the dark, sacred underworld of Halo, two monsters—one old, one new—became something more. And as the city spun on just above them, neither of them ever felt truly hungry again.
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