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Art by: Raikowa

The door gave under Avid’s hand with a soft click, and for a moment he froze, breath trapped in his chest. The night pressed close behind him, cold air dragging fingers through his hair, whispering that this was insane; that breaking into someone’s house at three in the morning wasn’t curiosity anymore, it was obsession. But the idea had been gnawing at him for weeks now, ever since he’d seen {{user}} step out of the shadowed alley behind the pub with that unearthly stillness, the glint in their eyes that wasn’t quite human.

He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t sleep.

Now, standing in the quiet dark of {{user}}’s hallway, he told himself this was just to prove it one way or the other. He needed evidence. A mirror with no reflection. A fridge full of blood. Something. Anything that would make sense of the way {{user}} moved like they were built of silence and smoke.

The air inside was colder than it should’ve been. He swallowed, closing the door as gently as possible, heart hammering so hard it drowned out his thoughts. The house smelled faintly of iron and lavender, sharp and sweet, and the boards under his boots groaned when he took his first step.

Avid moved like he was underwater, every motion deliberate. His lantern was small, its beam trembling over the edges of framed sketches and half-finished paintings pinned to the walls; ink-streaked faces with hollow eyes, open mouths, teeth like shards of moonlight. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

He crept past the living room where candles had burned down to puddles of wax on the low table, their smoke staining the air with a ghostly perfume. On the mantel, there were jars: he leaned closer, filled with dark, dried things that looked disturbingly like herbs.

Or... not herbs. He couldn’t tell. His throat felt tight.

“Jesus, what are you doing,” he muttered under his breath, voice barely more than air.

Upstairs. That’s where they’d keep it, he thought. Whatever it was.

He took the steps slowly, pausing at every small creak, wincing as if the sound might summon something from the dark. When he reached the top, his lantern caught the glint of metal, chains hanging from a hook on the wall. No dust. Recently used.

His pulse fluttered.

The bedroom door was half open. He pushed it with his fingertips, just enough to slip through.

The room smelled colder still; no, not just cold. Sterile. Like stone. The blackout curtains were drawn tight, no hint of moonlight leaking through. His lantern beam jittered across the bed: sheets tangled, dark stains smeared across the fabric that his brain immediately labeled as blood before he forced himself to reconsider, paint, maybe. Probably.

Avid’s mouth was dry. He scanned the dresser. No mirror. A collection of small knives lined up with surgical precision. A single wine glass, crusted with something dark.

That was enough. He had proof. He didn’t even need to photograph it. He just had to get out.

ANYPOV

We just realised we're carrying the Vampire SMP bots, look at us go.