Chapter Text
The Senate had granted Zero a pardon—for now. The decree had been wrapped in civility, words draped in velvet and ceremony, but Kaname heard the steel barbs beneath the polite cadence. It was not mercy. It was postponement. A careful shelving of what they deemed an inconvenience, a truce as fragile as spun glass, held together only by the faint echo of loyalty owed to his late parents and the ideals of peace they had once embodied. The hunter lived not because the Senate wished it, but because Kaname still drew breath within the walls of Cross Academy.
It had not taken much to disarm their suspicions. Hanabusa’s accusation, stripped bare, had been nothing more than suspicion, unfounded and unsupported. Against the word of a pureblood, such a claim dissolved like smoke. The Senate had no choice but to accept Kaname’s account, even if the concession left a bitter taste on their tongues.
The car hummed quietly as it slipped through the countryside, the night pressing close against the glass. Beyond the windows stretched long ribbons of road, shadowed trees flashing pale in the occasional sweep of headlights. The Senate mansion lay far behind them now, its austere walls receding into memory, but its presence lingered—an aftertaste sharp as iron, acrid with politics and veiled threats.
The Senate wanted answers. They demanded to see Shizuka Hio’s death laid bare before their eyes, to pull at the seams until the truth unravelled in their hands like fragile silk threads.
But Kaname would not give it to them. Even as a pureblood, untouchable by the letter of vampire law, he understood that knowledge was far more dangerous than any punishment they could enact. Truth, once revealed, could splinter the alliances he had so painstakingly built. If the Senate ever learned the real chain of events, Zero would become their first target, and from there, their reach would grow, swallowing everything Kaname had fought to preserve. He could not afford that. Not now, not ever.
No, he would craft a narrative, precise and unassailable. A lie that would shine so convincingly that the Senate would have no reason—or desire—to look further. It would take time, meticulous preparation, and the patience he had honed over the years. But patience was Kaname’s ally, as it had always been. In the delicate, perilous game of power, the greatest advantage was to let one’s opponent believe they were winning, to let them feel the illusion of control—until, inevitably, the board collapsed beneath their feet.
Kaname leaned back into the leather seat, his gaze fixed on the blur of darkness outside the window. The countryside passed in fragments—trees caught for an instant in the sweep of headlights before dissolving again into shadow. A faint smile touched his lips, subtle and unreadable. The Senate believed themselves untouchable, their authority absolute, their cunning unrivaled. But Kaname had always known better. Their confidence was not strength; it was a blade, honed sharp, waiting to turn back on them. And when it did, he would be there to guide its fall.
Beside him, Takuma exhaled a long, theatrical sigh, his slight frame sinking into the seat as though finally released from invisible restraints. The noble’s pale hair gleamed briefly in the passing light, then slipped back into shadow—a flicker of silver in the dark, like a fragile flame nearly extinguished. Kaname had felt the strain radiating from him throughout the endless hours at the Senate: each courteous smile drawn too tight, each polite bow laced with tension. Takuma’s discomfort had hung in the chamber like perfume, subtle yet inescapable, and though he had spoken not a word of it, Kaname had felt the weight pressing against him all the same.
Relief now softened his companion’s posture, but Kaname knew it was temporary. The younger noble found safety at his side, yes, but his true solace lay elsewhere. The moment they returned to Cross Academy, Takuma would vanish into Senri’s company—seeking refuge in that quiet, familiar intimacy, where no Senate eyes could follow. It was not abandonment, merely instinct: a retreat into the only sanctuary that had never demanded masks or performance. Kaname could not begrudge him that.
In truth, he envied it. The thought of his own quarters—the silence, the shadows unbroken by politics or expectation—pulled at him with quiet insistence. It beckoned like water to a weary traveler, promising reprieve, though Kaname knew better than to trust in promises. His composure, so carefully polished before the Senate, felt less like nature and more like an elaborate structure of glass: seamless, elegant, but perilously fragile beneath the weight of too many days, too many demands.
The hum of the tires against the road was steady, hypnotic, a rhythm that might have lulled another into slumber. But Kaname’s mind did not yield so easily. His thoughts, sharp and restless, prowled the darkness as the car sped through the night. Rest waited for others at the end of a journey. For him, there would be none. Not tonight.
Headmaster Cross would be waiting. Of that, Kaname had no doubt. The man would want to hear the senate’s verdict before the scent of it had even cooled. Better to deliver the words himself, to shape them exactly as he intended, than to risk the academy’s gossip dismantling the carefully constructed narrative in pieces.
The charges against Zero had been dropped, a fact that ought to provide some measure of satisfaction. Kaname suspected Cross would feel a blend of relief and suspicion. Relief for Zero’s safety, certainly; suspicion for the price that surely lingered behind such leniency, the subtle currents of compromise and calculation that the senate’s civility could never fully conceal. Kaien Cross was many things—idealistic, sentimental, frustratingly persistent—but he was not a fool. He would sense, as Kaname did, that this decision was not an act of benevolence but a move in some far larger, more dangerous game. And when that realisation settled, Cross would undoubtedly look to Kaname, seeking not just facts but insight, judgment, and perhaps even reassurance that the academy’s delicate balance would remain intact.
The car slowed to a crawl as the wrought-iron gates of Cross Academy emerged from the darkness, their intricate patterns glinting faintly where the dew clung to the cold metal. Gravel crunched softly beneath the tyres, each stone shifting with a muted protest before the vehicle finally rolled to a stop. Neither occupant lingered. The moment the engine’s low purr faded into silence, both vampires stepped out into the chill, predawn air. Their breaths formed ghostly wisps that dissipated almost instantly in the stillness, mingling with the faint scent of damp earth and frost-laden grass. The sky above was beginning to pale at the edges, a tentative wash of silver spilling over the horizon, yet the world felt suspended, caught in that fragile, hushed moment before the sun’s first light could claim it. Shadows clung stubbornly to the corners of the courtyard, long and dark, as if the night itself were reluctant to release its grip.
Takuma offered Kaname a quick, warm smile, his voice low but sincere as he murmured a polite goodnight. Despite the civility, his posture betrayed the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, the rigid composure of the day finally giving way to the desire for comfort and rest. He moved toward the Moon Dorms with quiet urgency, shoulders slumping slightly as though each step carried him further from the suffocating formality of the senate, from the invisible pressures of his family’s expectations, and toward the rare sanctuary of familiarity and ease. Kaname watched him go, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was a small, private satisfaction to know that his friend could finally relax, even if only for a few hours, freed from the relentless scrutiny and unspoken tensions of the past few days.
The Pureblood crossed the academy grounds with deliberate slowness, allowing the cold morning air to settle over him as he moved. He carried the weight of the evening silently, his mind racing ahead even as his body followed a measured pace. The lamps along the paths cast gentle pools of light, reflecting in the dew like tiny stars scattered across the ground. He was unsurprised to find the academy building warmly lit even at such an hour; Kaien Cross had never been one for waiting. Six in the morning was hardly a time most would choose for conversation, yet Kaname knew the headmaster well enough to expect him awake, likely pacing in his study, tea long forgotten on the desk, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps. Cross had always preferred to meet news head-on, to confront it directly rather than allow it to fester in silence, and Kaname could already anticipate the mixture of relief and suspicion that would mark the man’s expression when he appeared.
Sure enough, the moment Kaname stepped inside the headmaster's office, Kaien’s head lifted. The soft glow of the desk lamp caught in his eyes, sparking recognition and relief that softened the lines of his face. A broad smile broke across his features, genuine and warm, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of the night seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Kaname!” he greeted, his voice carrying a mixture of familiarity and gratitude, as though the pureblood’s return were the single most important event of the evening. “What news?”
Kaname held his gaze, every line of his body poised, his expression carved smooth. “The Senate has agreed to withdraw their charges against Zero. They will cease further investigation—on the condition that I remain at the academy.” His tone was calm, even, though the weight of the statement hung in the air. For Kaname, the condition was nothing at all. He had no intention of leaving.
Kaien’s shoulders sagged almost theatrically, a heavy breath spilling from him somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Oh, thank God…” The words were soft, but they carried the immense relief of a man who had been carrying too much fear through the night. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, as though finally unburdened, if only for a moment. The smile lingered on his face, weary but unbroken.
Kaname inclined his head subtly, his tone carrying a hint of vigilance beneath the calm surface. “I have no doubt the Senate is working toward something. But for now, they will leave Zero alone. They know he is under my protection—along with everyone else within these walls. But for now, we are out of the woods.”
Kaien leaned back slightly, though the subtle tension in his posture betrayed that he was far from fully at ease. “Shizuka’s death was a shock to all of us,” he admitted, his voice low and reflective, tinged with the weight of grief that lingered even in moments of reprieve. “But for the Senate to accuse Zero… I will be the first to say he has every right to enact his revenge. Yet he was in no state to do much of anything that night.” There was no bitterness in his tone, only the quiet, wounded resignation of a man who had seen too much and carried the burden of both authority and care. His hands rested lightly on the desk, knuckles whitening with the faint pressure of restraint.
“All evidence I presented to the Senate,” Kaname replied, his gaze steady. He had laid out the facts with precision, constructing a narrative so tight it left no room for their doubts to take root—not without them revealing their own motives. He had given them enough truth to satisfy their sense of justice and enough misdirection to protect the real chain of events.
“I have also submitted a report to the Hunters’ Association,” Kaien continued, “but they refuse to intervene. Zero is a vampire, and they claim this is not their concern. He comes from one of the Association’s most esteemed families, and yet they refuse to help.” His voice sharpened ever so slightly on the final words, the flash of frustration breaking through his habitual gentleness, betraying the depth of his dismay at the rigid, impersonal machinery of bureaucracy.
“That is unfortunate,” Kaname said evenly. In a world where bloodlines and titles dictated allegiance, loyalty was a commodity that lasted only so long as it remained convenient. Which was extremely unfortunate for someone like Zero.
“They’re the people who should be standing beside him,” Kaien murmured, shaking his head slowly, the disappointment in his gaze both quiet and palpable. “And yet… the only people who are, are us.” He lifted his eyes to meet Kaname’s, and in that glance there was something earnest, unguarded—a rare moment of vulnerability from a man who carried so much responsibility. “I don’t think I ever formally thanked you for standing up for him like that—so, thank you, Kaname.”
Kaname inclined his head in a small gesture of acknowledgment. “Of course. He is part of your family… how could I not?” The words were spoken with a measured grace, but in the quiet that followed, an unspoken truth echoed only in his own mind—How could I let the one I love suffer?
“Well,” Kaien said, his tone softening, the weight of the night easing from his voice, “I know we have a lot more to discuss, but the sun is coming up, and I know you must be tired. I’ll let you go, Kaname. We can continue this conversation another time, but for now…” His mouth curved into a faint smile, one that carried a rare warmth, the kind of quiet reassurance that seemed to fill the office even in the early hours. “For now, I’m just happy that Zero is safe.”
“You and me both,” Kaname replied, his voice calm and even, yet touched with the subtle undercurrent of his own exhaustion. “Goodnight, Headmaster.”
“Good morning, Kaname,” Kaien returned, a faint glimmer lighting his eyes, the kind of soft light that persisted even when difficult truths loomed over them. The words were quiet, almost playful, but carried the weight of genuine warmth.
A low, amused sound escaped Kaname—more of a quiet chuckle than a laugh—as he turned toward the door.
The hinges gave a muted creak as he opened the door, stepping into the dim corridor beyond. The air here was cooler, carrying the faint scent of paper, old wood, and the lingering faint tang of wax from polished floors. It was a smell that seemed to seep into the academy’s halls during the early hours, thick with the quiet hush before students stirred. Kaname closed the door gently behind him, the soft click echoing slightly in the stillness, and began down the corridor.
He had only made it a few paces when he stopped short. Leaning casually—though with a posture that betrayed the readiness of a predator—against the far wall was a tall man with dark hair, the sharp line of his profile etched against the pale glow spilling from a nearby sconce. The faint, acrid tang of cigarette smoke curled lazily through the air. Toga Yagari’s gaze lifted to meet Kaname’s, the single visible eye cold and calculating, the weight of its scrutiny both familiar and unnerving. The cigarette shifted between his lips as he spoke, his words blunt, stripped of ornamentation, carrying the weight of unspoken concern. “Is he safe?”
“For now,” Kaname answered without hesitation.
“It better stay that way, vampire.” The hunter growled.
“It will,” Kaname replied. There was no need for threats or promises—his calm carried the unshakable confidence of one who knew the consequences of failure and the cost of carelessness.
Yagari’s only response was a noncommittal hum, half grunt, half acknowledgment. Without another word, he pushed himself away from the wall, boots making a muted thud against the polished floorboards as he strode past Kaname. The faint scent of smoke trailed in his wake. Without looking back, Yagari crossed the short distance to Kaien’s office and disappeared inside, the door closing behind him with a quiet but final click, sealing him away from the corridor’s solitude.
Kaname lingered for a brief moment in the empty hallway, the silence folding back around him like a cloak. The only sounds were the soft echoes of distant footsteps and the faint hum of the early morning air brushing against the walls. Then, he resumed his walk towards the Moon Dorms.
Zero groaned softly as he rolled onto his side, one hand clutching his chest as if trying to physically restrain the hunger clawing within him. The emptiness in his veins had been growing for weeks, almost a month since he had last tasted blood, and though he had convinced himself he was managing, the truth was far less comforting. Kaname’s blood, strong and potent, had kept his urges at bay for a while, a stabilising anchor against the storm of cravings that threatened to overwhelm him. It had been a temporary reprieve, though, a fragile barrier that yesterday’s incident had shattered with brutal clarity.
During the skirmish that always erupted during crossover, a girl from the day class had stumbled and scraped her knee. At the sight of her blood Zero had felt that familiar pang strike through him, a sharp, insistent ache in his chest that made it difficult to focus on anything else. The instinct had been instant, visceral, and horrifyingly compelling. His mind had screamed at him to look away, to ignore the scent, but the body had betrayed him, reacting before reason could assert itself.
The pain had only grown more insistent as the hours passed, curling through his veins and settling into a dull, persistent throb in his temples and fangs. By nightfall, the sensation had become almost unbearable, his fangs aching as though they themselves were demanding release. He had paced his room, fingers trembling, wrestling with the shame of the need that had surged within him.
He had dreamt of Kaname, of the warmth and strength that always seemed to radiate from the pureblood, of sinking his throbbing fangs into the willing, unresisting neck, and in that fleeting, dreamlike state, he had felt a sharp, almost intoxicating relief, as if a small part of the hunger had finally been sated. The fantasy had been vivid, every detail magnified by his longing—the way Kaname’s pulse seemed to echo in his own veins, the subtle scent that had driven him nearly to madness, the quiet surrender that allowed him a momentary escape from the relentless craving. But that ephemeral comfort had been brutally interrupted. The instant reality intruded, he had been wrenched awake by the searing, unyielding pain in his chest, the gnawing emptiness of his veins reminding him that nothing in dreams could substitute for the harsh truths of his condition. The hunger returned with twice the intensity, a cruel reminder of his weakness and the constant, gnawing need that no fantasy could ever fully quiet.
A sudden knock at the door jolted him from the haze of pain, snapping the frayed thread of his thoughts and dragging his focus to the sharp, pulsing ache in his chest. “Zero?” The voice was soft, tentative, almost hesitant, but he didn’t need to hear more than a single syllable to know who it belonged to.
“Go away,” he groaned, the words low and rough, almost a growl. Even with the door as a barrier, he could smell her—the faint, warm undertone of human blood that lingered in his senses like a siren’s call, overlaid with the clean scent of soap and the crisp bite of early morning air clinging to her clothes. It made the hunger flare, hot and sharp in his veins. She was too close. Far too close. If she came inside, he wasn’t sure—wasn’t entirely certain—that he’d have the strength to stop himself from lunging at her.
“Are you okay? You didn’t come to breakfast,” she pressed, her tone laced with concern. The sound of it scraped against his already fraying nerves. “Are you sick?” There was a slight pause, followed by the faint, metallic click of the doorknob turning. He heard the subtle rattle as she tested it, and relief swept through him when the lock held. He silently thanked his past self for remembering to secure it.
“Yes,” he bit out, clamping his eyes shut as another throb of pain lanced through his skull, the sensation white-hot and blinding. “Now go away.”
“But—”
“Go away!” His voice rose without warning, the sharpness cutting through the air like a blade. He pushed himself upright too quickly, and the world spun violently around him. Dark spots danced across his vision, blooming and fading like shadows at the edges of candlelight. A low, guttural groan escaped him as he clutched at his head, each heartbeat pounding like a drum against the inside of his skull. Instinct took over—his knees drew up to his chest, shoulders curling inward, as if making himself smaller could somehow lessen the pain.
“O-okay,” Yuuki stammered after a beat, her voice small now, uncertain, and touched with hurt. “I’m going into town with Yori later…I’m staying for a few days so…get better ok?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His focus narrowed to the rhythm of his breathing and the effort of keeping down the nausea threatening to overtake him. Outside, her footsteps retreated slowly, reluctantly, until they were gone. But even with the hallway silent, the scent of her lingered, and it gnawed at him, weaving hunger and pain into one relentless, consuming need.
Zero rocked back and forth where he sat on the bed, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The motion was almost unconscious, a fragile rhythm born of desperation, as if the repetition could tether him to the present, could stop the gnawing hunger from swallowing him whole. The mattress dipped and shifted beneath his slight movements, but he barely noticed. His world had narrowed to the sound of his own breathing, the hammering of his pulse, and the relentless fire in his veins.
He had gone longer before, months, years even, without letting the thirst take control. He had endured nights where his body screamed for blood, where every instinct howled at him to sink his teeth into the first living thing within reach, and somehow, he had made it through. But this time was different. This time, the hunger was a living thing, feral and merciless, clawing at him from the inside out.
Ever since he’d tasted Kaname’s blood, everything had changed. That single, potent indulgence had carved itself into him like molten iron, its power searing through his veins and rooting itself deep in the marrow of his bones. It had been enough to keep the bloodlust at bay for almost a month—more than enough, in fact—but now… now it felt like it had only honed the edge of his hunger to something sharper, more dangerous. His body remembered that taste…and he only craved more.
Each throb of his fangs was matched by the pounding in his chest, an ache so deep it seemed to radiate through every nerve, every muscle. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, as though he could physically shove the craving back down where it belonged. But it didn’t work. The hunger only swelled, curling through his thoughts like smoke, slipping into every crack and crevice of his mind. It whispered to him with a cruel sort of patience, telling him he didn’t need to fight.
There were so many people just beyond his bedroom door—students milling in the hallway, laughing, calling out to friends as they prepared to leave for the holidays. Their voices blended into a distant hum, but to Zero, each one was a potential heartbeat, a pulse waiting to be claimed. Any one of them could become his next meal.
He shook his head sharply, almost violently, as if he could rattle the thoughts loose. His nails dug through the fabric of his shirt, scraping at the skin beneath until he could feel the sting. But the pain didn’t clear his mind—it only drove the images deeper. The memory of Kaname’s blood rose unbidden, dragging with it every detail he wished he could forget: the heat of it filling his mouth, the way it had flooded through him like a tide, the impossible strength and clarity that had followed.
He hated it. Hated the insistent pull that clawed at his insides, the merciless reminder of what he was. Every pang in his chest, every quickened heartbeat that didn’t belong to him, carved deeper into his resolve. His own body had turned traitor, whispering promises of relief if only he surrendered. But beneath that rising tide of hatred lurked something far more dangerous—fear. Fear that this time, the thin veneer of control he clung to would unravel completely. Fear that each fraying thread was bringing him closer to the brink, and he no longer had the strength to weave it back together.
His breath came uneven, shallow, as though the very air recoiled from his lungs. That was when his eyes caught on the knife lying idle on his desk. The hunter’s blade, a cold and silent relic of another life. Its steel gleamed faintly in the low light, a promise of finality, of escape.
A tremor passed through him, violent and unbidden. He told himself it was the hunger, but deep down he knew better. He knew exactly what he was considering, and exactly why.
The thought took root with terrifying ease.
If the hunger was a curse he could never escape, then perhaps the answer wasn’t in resisting it, but in silencing it—once and for all. The knife waited, patient and impartial, and the pull inside him only tightened, whispering that there was no other way.
He needed this hunger to end.
And he knew just the way to do it.
Kaname sipped at his wine, the crystal glass cool against his fingers, as his eyes wandered over the small outdoor courtyard of the Moon Dorms. Senri’s birthday gathering had reached its comfortable stride, the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter weaving together in the soft night air. The party was modest by any noble’s standards, yet Senri seemed entirely content—perhaps even more so for its intimacy. A string of warm lanterns swayed gently overhead, their glow softening the pale marble and casting flickers of gold across the faces of those in attendance.
Takuma, ever attentive but careful not to intrude, had done as much as he could without pressing against his lover’s boundaries. A cake sat displayed on the long table—a delicate creation layered with cream and fresh berries, its surface gleaming under the lantern light. Off to one side rested a small but neatly stacked pile of gifts, wrapped in fine paper and ribbon, each one chosen with quiet care. Kaname had no doubt Senri would enjoy unwrapping them later. His young cousin had never been quiet about his love of gifts.
Most striking of all was the easy, unguarded way Takuma and Senri moved through the space together. They had spent the majority of the evening side by side, shoulders brushing, glances shared without hesitation. Their connection was impossible to miss—an openness that would have drawn whispers in certain circles, yet here, within these walls, it was met with nothing but acceptance. It was a rare thing, Kaname thought, to see love so unashamedly displayed, and rarer still for both halves of the pair to look as though they had finally found the exact place they were meant to be. Takuma and Senri deserved nothing less.
Kaname took another slow sip of his wine, letting the taste linger on his tongue. The blend was imported from Europe—rich, deep, and infused with real human blood, the kind that carried both weight and warmth. This particular vintage dated back to 1839, and there was a certain satisfaction in knowing he was drinking something crafted with the care and patience of another age. Yet, for all its refinement, the wine did nothing to quiet the faint, dull ache lodged in his chest.
It had been with him all day, a persistent pressure that he had first mistaken for hunger. It had been some time since he last drank from a living source, and although purebloods could go months—sometimes longer—without tasting fresh blood, the symptoms, when they came, were rarely more than a mild distraction. A faint dryness in the throat. A fleeting pang of thirst. Nothing like this. This ache felt different—rooted deeper, threaded into something beyond simple need.
Still, he drank, refilling his glass with an unhurried grace, the ruby liquid catching the lamplight in a glint of dark fire. If this was hunger, then it was of a kind he had not known before, stubbornly unmoved by the blood-laced wine, no matter how much he sipped. If it continued, he thought wryly, he would find himself well and truly drunk long before he felt the edge of it begin to dull.
He had just set his glass back down on the low marble-topped table when a familiar voice drifted into his awareness, light as silk yet carrying the unmistakable thread of intention.
“Lord Kaname,” Ruka greeted, her tone warm yet carefully composed. She stepped forward into the pool of lantern light that glowed softly at the courtyard’s edge, the delicate shimmer of gold threads woven through her gown catching in the illumination. The fabric moved with her like water, trailing the faint scent of her perfume—floral, refined, and costly—an aroma that spoke of old aristocratic halls and a lifetime of privilege. It mingled with the sweeter notes of cake and wine lingering in the night air.
“You seem rather pensive tonight,” she observed, her voice pitched low enough to keep the exchange theirs alone.
Kaname turned his eyes to her, the faintest suggestion of a smile brushing his lips. “Do I?” he asked, his tone even, betraying none of the dull, persistent ache in his chest that had been with him all evening.
She tilted her head in a way that made the light catch in her hair, her eyes searching his face with a softness that was not purely friendly. A light blush colouring her cheeks. “I was wondering,” she began, affecting an idle manner, though he could feel the delicate threads of calculation beneath her words, “what your plans are for the upcoming holiday. Surely you aren’t intending to remain here the entire time?”
“The academy will be quiet,” Kaname replied, “I suspect it will be an ideal opportunity to find rest.”
Ruka’s expression brightened almost imperceptibly, as though she had anticipated this small opening. “My family will be at our villa by the coast,” she said, her voice careful, each syllable smoothed of anything that might be read as desperation. “It’s secluded, peaceful. The sea air would do you good. You would be more than welcome to join us if you wished. It would be… pleasant.”
Her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than was strictly necessary, and he understood the invitation for what it truly was—not merely a gesture of politeness, but a hope that proximity might bridge the distance he kept so carefully between them. “You are gracious to extend such an offer,” he said at last, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “But I must decline. There are matters here that require my attention, even during the break.”
The flicker in her expression was so fleeting that another might have missed it—a shadow of disappointment tempered by the composure she had mastered over the years. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a practised smile of grace and lightness.
“Of course,” she murmured, her voice resuming its airy warmth. “I’m sorry for asking. I should have known you would be busy.” Kaname returned her smile with a small, polite one of his own. “Perhaps another time,” he offered, though the words were more a courtesy than a promise. Both of them knew it.
Ruka inclined her head, her movements as elegant as ever, but he caught the faintest hesitation before she turned away. He watched her blend once more into the small gathering, laughter and conversation rising to swallow her presence. Then, quietly, he lifted his wine again, the ache in his chest no less for the exchange.
Zero stumbled into the stables with all the grace of a dying fish, boots scuffing unevenly against the packed earth. The heavy wooden doors groaned on their hinges as they swung shut behind him, the sudden disturbance startling the horses from their quiet slumber. A chorus of restless whinnies and the shuffling of hooves filled the dim space, the warm, familiar scent of hay and leather mixing with the sharper tang of his own ragged breathing.
Most of the Day Class students had already departed for the holidays, leaving the campus eerily quiet. Yuuki’s last-minute decision to spend several days in town with Yori had only deepened that sense of emptiness—and provided him with the rare opportunity to slip out of the dorms unseen. He needed to be somewhere safe, somewhere that brought comfort.
He had thought the cold bite of the night air might help, might take the edge off the ever-present, gnawing thirst that had been clawing at his insides for days. But out here, away from the dormitory walls, his senses were sharper—too sharp. Every sound carried with crystalline clarity: The soft crunch of straw under hoof, the faint creak of old leather tack, the steady exhale of warm bodies so close by…every single detail assaulted him. Life pulsed in the air, thick and maddening, so close he could almost drink it straight from the night. His skin itched, stretched thin over a body trembling on the brink of collapse. His fangs ached with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat, and he did not need a mirror to know that the pale amethyst of his eyes had drowned in that feral crimson.
Lily gave a low, anxious whine as he staggered into the farthest corner and dropped heavily to the ground, curling in on himself. Her dark eyes followed his every movement, the twitch of her ears betraying her unease. But Zero ignored her, shutting out even the faint comfort of her presence. All he could focus on was the unrelenting hunger burning through his veins.
If he had no pride left, he would have dragged himself on hands and knees if necessary to the Night Class dorms, straight to Kaname. He knew, without doubt, that the pureblood’s blood could quench this fire. He could almost taste it in his memory, that rich, undeniable sweetness that lingered long after it touched his tongue. The thought alone made his stomach twist in both longing and revulsion.
But he would not do it. He would not give Kaname the satisfaction of seeing him break, nor would he allow himself to admit how deeply the need had already claimed him.
Besides…there was no way in hell Kuran would give him his blood a second time.
A sharp jolt of pain knifed through his chest, forcing a gasp from his lips. He tightened his arms around his middle as though he could physically hold himself together, teeth gritted against the low groan that threatened to escape. His breath came uneven, hot and heavy in the chill air, and he closed his eyes, riding the wave of agony as it tore through him.
There was nothing he could do except sit there and endure it—breath by strained breath—while the hunger carved him hollow from the inside out. The pain wasn’t sharp in the way of a clean wound; it was deep and dragging, a constant gnawing that scraped along his nerves and left him feeling like his own body had turned against him. He willed it to stop, to fade into the background, but he knew it wouldn’t. The hunger didn’t care about willpower. It would burn him down to nothing if he let it.
His hunter instincts screamed at him, a voice honed by years of training and survival—clear, uncompromising, and merciless. They told him exactly what he needed to do to end this suffering, and it wasn’t something that left room for hesitation. But beneath that hard-edged voice was another—quieter yet relentless—the pulse of his vampire nature. That side of him whispered the opposite, urging him to surrender, to seek out what he craved most, to drink until the world made sense again. The two halves clashed inside him like beasts locked in a cage, tearing at each other until his head throbbed.
He’d let the vampire side win before—more times than he wanted to admit. Each time it left him with the taste of guilt in his mouth long after the blood had gone. Maybe now, he thought, was the time to listen to the other side. His fingers trembled as they dug into his pocket, closing around the familiar weight of the hunter’s knife. The polished metal felt colder than the winter air, its presence almost accusing in his palm. When he drew it free, the sting of the steel against his skin made his breath hitch.
If he were on a job, tracking prey through the shadows, and found a vampire in this state—wild-eyed, fangs bared, drowning in bloodlust—there would be no question about what needed to be done. No pause. No debate. You put it down before it could take another life.
And tonight, that vampire was him.
This blade had been a gift, given to him by the Association to commemorate his first kill as a hunter. And now, it lay in his grasp for an entirely different purpose. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The same blade that had marked the beginning of his life as a hunter was now poised to bring about its end.
He had been thinking about this for a long time. The idea had crept into his thoughts years ago, when he had first been turned. And then they grew more insistent as the years passed. It had become a quiet constant, lingering in the background no matter what he was doing—training, patrolling, even in the rare moments of rest. And now, standing here with the weight of his choice in his hands, it felt like the perfect time to follow through.
No one would care. Not really. Yuuki would be upset, but then she would throw herself into Kaname’s world, swept along by the kind of devotion that Zero could only long for. The two of them would disappear into whatever life the Pureblood had planned for her, leaving him behind like a forgotten shadow. He could almost picture it—Kaname’s arm around her, the serene smile on her face, their silhouettes framed against some idyllic backdrop, far away from the mess he had become.
Yagari… Yagari would understand, in his own way. He was a seasoned hunter, a man who had seen too much, lost too much. Zero didn’t think he’d cry—he wasn’t the type. He’d simply take the news in that grim, stoic way of his, maybe close his eyes for a moment in silent acknowledgment. The headmaster, though, might cry. In fact, Zero was sure he would. But even that grief would fade in time. The man had lost people before; he’d learn to live with one more absence.
He was just… so tired. The kind of tired that no amount of sleep could fix. Tired of the hunger, the pain, the constant war inside himself. Tired of pretending to be fine for the sake of others when he was crumbling inside. He couldn’t do this anymore. Not one more day, not one more night. Nobody wanted him. Nobody cared for him in the way he needed—not really. What he wanted was simple and impossibly out of reach: to be held, to be loved, to feel safe in someone’s arms without fear or shame. But that wasn’t possible for a monster like him. Monsters didn’t get love—they got pity, fear, or hatred. And Zero had lived through enough of all three to know which one hurt the most.
His grip tightened around the hilt of the blade, the worn leather familiar beneath his fingers. The weight of it was steady, certain—more certain than anything else in his life. He drew in a slow breath, the air catching in his throat like it no longer wanted to be there. For a moment, his reflection in the polished steel caught his eye: pale skin stretched tight over sharp features, eyes glowing faintly red in the dim light. A reminder of what he was. Of what he could never escape.
He turned the blade, angling the point toward his chest. It rested just over his heart, the cold metal biting through the fabric of his shirt as if impatient for the final push. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer exhaustion weighing down every part of him. This was the closest thing to peace he could imagine. One clean strike, and it would all be over: the hunger, the loneliness, the endless ache of wanting something he could never have.
Zero closed his eyes, shutting out the dusty little stable, and the sound of the horses, shutting out the world. He thought of nothing, willed himself to feel nothing. The sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears—steady, rhythmic, waiting for the moment it would stop.
With a slow, steady breath, he drew the blade back…and brought it forward, slamming it into his chest.