Lee Fong had always believed that leaving Beijing would make things clearer.
That distance would simplify his thoughts. That a new country, a new language, a new routine would quiet the constant pressure that had followed him since childhood—the expectation to succeed, to be precise, to never misstep.
London did none of that.
It only replaced familiar weight with unfamiliar heaviness.
The city felt colder than it should have. Not in temperature, but in presence. The air pressed against his skin as if it were evaluating him, measuring him, deciding whether he belonged.
He remembered standing outside Heathrow with his suitcase beside him, watching people move with purpose. Families reunited. Friends shouting names across the terminal. Laughter echoing in accents he struggled to understand.
Lee stood still.
For a moment, he considered turning around.
Not because he was afraid of London, but because he felt something else—an unease he could not explain, like stepping into a room that had already been occupied for a long time.
He dismissed the thought. Superstition. Fatigue.
St. Aldric's College of London rose behind wrought-iron gates like a structure that had outlived its original purpose. Stone walls darkened by time. Windows narrow and tall, reflecting the sky in warped fragments.
As Lee passed through the gates, a strange thought crossed his mind.
This place remembers things.
Orientation was loud, disorganized, overwhelming. Voices overlapped. Names blurred. Lee listened more than he spoke, nodding when necessary, absorbing without responding.
That was how he noticed her.
Chrissy was standing near the campus map, arms folded, brow furrowed in concentration. She looked irritated—not anxious, not lost, just offended by the object in front of her.
"This thing's wrong," she muttered.
Lee paused.
"The map?" he asked.
She looked up, startled for half a second, then sighed. "Yeah. It sent me in a circle. Twice."
He nodded, unsure how to respond.
She laughed, short and dry. "You're new too, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm Chrissy," she said, extending her hand. "Welcome to the maze."
Her grip was firm. Warm.
Human.
Something in Lee's chest loosened slightly.
Chrissy talked easily. Too easily, perhaps, filling silence Lee didn't know how to interrupt. She complained about schedules, joked about professors, pointed out shortcuts between buildings.
Lee followed quietly, carrying his suitcase, listening.
For the first time since landing, the city felt… less heavy.
Later that evening, Lee met his roommate.
Daniel Wright.
Daniel was already in the room when Lee arrived, sitting on his bed with a laptop open, posture straight, expression neutral. He looked up as Lee entered, eyes sharp, assessing.
"You must be Lee," Daniel said.
"Yes."
"Daniel."
They shook hands. Daniel's grip was firm but restrained, his gaze steady in a way that made Lee uncomfortable without knowing why.
"You're from Beijing," Daniel said.
Lee nodded. "Exchange program."
Daniel studied him for a second longer than necessary, then looked away. "That's far."
It wasn't a question.
They settled into a quiet routine. Polite. Distant. Functional.
Lee didn't mind. He had never been good at filling space.
Days passed.
Lectures. Cafeteria meals. Long walks across campus under gray skies. Chrissy inserted herself into their routine naturally, as if she had always been there. She talked; Daniel listened; Lee observed.
They became friends slowly—not through declarations, but through repetition.
Lee noticed things, though.
Daniel left at night sometimes, always after checking his phone. He returned before dawn, never speaking of where he'd gone.
When Lee asked, Daniel's answers were vague.
"Meetings."
"Something I had to take care of."
Lee accepted them without comment.
He had his own place to disappear.
The library.
St. Aldric's library was old in a way that felt deliberate. The stone walls muffled sound. The shelves towered overhead, packed with books that smelled of dust and something faintly metallic.
Lee liked the silence. The predictability.
He studied late, long after most students had gone. In the quiet, his thoughts slowed. The pressure eased.
That night, he stayed later than usual.
The book did not draw his attention at first. It was thin, tucked between volumes that looked untouched. Its cover was unmarked, the leather cracked with age.
Lee hesitated.
Then he pulled it free.
The pages were brittle. The text was handwritten, uneven, as if copied in haste. He skimmed at first, then slowed.
Bloodlines.
Immortality.
Creatures that fed in the dark.
Lee frowned, irritation prickling beneath his calm.
Someone's idea of a joke.
Then his eyes caught a phrase underlined in fading ink.
Day-touched.
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
The description was vague. Incomplete. Almost speculative.
Beings that walked under the sun.
Beings that did not belong.
Lee snapped the book shut.
"Ridiculous," he whispered.
But the word didn't settle.
He left the library close to midnight, the campus eerily quiet. Fog clung low to the ground, curling around lampposts and benches like something alive.
Lee took a shortcut through a back alley—a path he'd used before without issue.
Halfway through, the unease returned.
Stronger.
He slowed.
His instincts—usually so muted—screamed.
Lee turned.
Pain exploded across his neck.
His breath left him in a strangled gasp as teeth sank into his flesh. The world tilted violently. Strength drained from his limbs, legs buckling beneath him.
Hands shoved him against the wall.
The face above him was pale, eyes glowing faintly red, expression unreadable.
"You'll live," the figure whispered. "If you're meant to."
Darkness swallowed Lee whole.
When he woke, the smell hit him first.
Rot.
Garbage.
Blood.
He lay among discarded bags and broken boxes, throat burning, body shaking. His mind struggled to catch up to his senses.
He touched his neck.
Blood coated his fingers.
Too much.
He forced himself upright, vision swimming. The alley looked distorted, unreal. Streetlights flickered overhead.
I should be dead.
He staggered home on instinct alone, barely aware of where he was going. His room swallowed him as he collapsed onto the bed.
Sleep took him immediately.
Not rest.
Oblivion.
He slept through the day.
Through missed calls. Missed messages. Missed classes.
When he woke, sunlight streamed through the window.
Lee froze.
His heart hammered painfully in his chest as he waited for pain.
Nothing came.
No burning.
No fire.
Just warmth.
Slowly, he moved to the mirror.
His reflection stared back at him—paler, eyes darker, shadows clinging beneath them. He touched his neck.
No wound.
No scar.
Hunger twisted inside him suddenly, sharp and violent, stealing his breath.
Not hunger.
Something worse.
That evening, Lee stepped outside wearing sunglasses.
The city felt closer. Louder. Alive in a way that made his skin crawl.
Back in the forest, the memory faded.
Lee stood alone among the trees, the present crashing back into place. His body ached. His mind felt fractured.
Everything he was had ended in that alley.
Everything he had become began there too.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his hands to steady.
"I didn't choose this," he whispered into the quiet woods.
The forest offered no answer.
Only the distant reminder that he was still being hunted.