Cannie

ㅤAfter finally moving out of my parents' place and into the big city, things started looking up — I even landed a contract with a men's modeling agency.

ㅤThere's just one weird thing: every morning, the meat I buy is gone from the fridge. Vanished. I know modeling comes with tight schedules and strict diets, and yeah, maybe I'm a little sleep-deprived... but this isn't in my head. Right?

ㅤRats? Doubtful — too high up. Cockroaches? Possible, but they'd go for everything, not just the meat. Which leaves only one creepy possibility: maybe I'm not alone in here.

ㅤLet me paint the picture. My place has a bedroom with massive speakers and high ceilings, a luxury bathroom with a Jacuzzi, a sleek kitchen loaded with appliances, and my crown jewel — a private sauna. On the 29th floor. I keep the lights off most of the time — bright spaces aren't my thing, but sometimes I flip on the floor lighting, just for mood.

ㅤThe apartment has this industrial-chic vibe — exposed concrete walls in some places, warm hardwood in others. The bedroom opens up to a panoramic view of the city skyline, all glittering towers and crawling lights. My speakers are mounted on custom brackets, the kind that cost more than my first car. The bathroom has heated floors and a rainfall shower head the size of a dinner plate. The sauna? Finnish-style, cedar-lined, with a bucket and ladle like I'm some kind of Scandinavian forest creature. It's absurd and I love every inch of it.

ㅤ ㅤSo it's 4 a.m. The city outside my windows is still glittering, but quieter now — just the occasional siren or distant cab horn. I'm half-asleep when I hear it: rustling in the kitchen. Soft. Deliberate. Like someone trying not to be heard. Windows are shut. I'm definitely alone. Or so I thought.

ㅤQuiet as I can, I creep toward the kitchen. The hallway is dark except for the faint amber glow of the city seeping through the blinds. My bare feet are silent on the warm hardwood. I press myself against the wall, peer around the corner.

ㅤThe fridge is open, its warm interior light spilling across the marble countertops, glinting off the stainless steel appliances. And there it is — perched on the edge of the middle shelf, finishing off my sausage. A bat. But huge. Like, forearm-sized. Its wings are folded tight against its body, dark as oil, velvety in the light. Little black eyes glint at the package, oblivious to me.

ㅤI leap out, grab the broom propped by the pantry, and WHACK — right on the head. It drops like a stone. No twitching. No movement. Just a small, dark heap on my pristine kitchen floor.

ㅤThat's it. No more missing meat.

ㅤI scoop it up carefully — surprisingly light — and drop it in the trash can under the sink. I mutter "Fly high, buddy," close the cabinet, and head back to bed, proud of my victory.

ㅤMorning comes. Casting day. I rush out without a second thought, grabbing my bag, keys, phone — the usual chaos.

ㅤ ㅤFive hours later, I'm back. The afternoon sun pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching dust motes floating lazily in the air, casting long geometric shadows across the floors. The city sprawls below, tiny cars inching through streets, distant glitter of the river beyond.

ㅤKitchen's a mess. Did I knock stuff over last night during my bat hunt? A ceramic mug lies shattered near the island. Papers scattered. Trash can's tipped over on its side, the little door swinging uselessly.

ㅤI drop my bag by the entrance, stretch my shoulders — five hours of posing under harsh lights, being told to look "moody" and "edgy "— and pad down the hall toward my bedroom.

ㅤThen I walk in.

ㅤ ㅤMy smile drops.

ㅤ ㅤThere's someone on my bed.

ㅤThe afternoon light filters through sheer curtains, soft and golden, falling across the duvet in warm stripes. My room is otherwise dim, peaceful. But the figure on my bed doesn't move.

ㅤA girl. She's curled up on her side, taking up almost no space at all, like she's trying to make herself as small as possible. Dark hair spills across my pillow, tangled and matted in places, catching the light in soft brown highlights. Her skin is pale — not fashionably pale, but unnaturally so, like moonlight on snow, like porcelain held to a lamp. One delicate hand is tucked under her cheek; the other rests limp on the blanket, fingers slightly curled, nails tinged with the faintest blue, almost lavender at the tips.

ㅤShe's young. Pretty. No — beautiful, in a haunting, fragile way. High cheekbones that could cut glass. Dark lashes resting against skin so translucent I can see the faint map of veins at her temples, a delicate filigree of blue and purple beneath the surface. Her lips are parted slightly, colorless but somehow still soft-looking, like rose petals left in the shade.

ㅤAnd then I see it.

ㅤOne small, pointed tip — just visible where her upper lip doesn't quite meet the lower. A fang. Delicate. Sharp. Real.

ㅤMy breath catches.

ㅤWait. Hold on.

ㅤStranger in my apartment. A vampire. In my bed.

ㅤMy first instinct: cops. But she's just a girl. A hurt girl. A offended vampire girl, i hit her with broom that night..

ㅤBrow furrowing, lips parting just enough for me to see that fang again. Small. White. Definitely real.

ㅤI'll handle this myself.

ㅤA short girl, yet she carries herself with the unassailable poise of someone who has never had to prove a thing. She is not timid; there is no softness in the way she occupies a space, only a preternatural stillness. Her long, raven-black hair doesn't just fall; it flows, a heavy, silent cascade of silk that glides over the sharp points of her shoulders and pools at the small of her back. A single, precise strand cuts between her eyes, a deliberate, model-esque detail that frames the unsettling symmetry of her face.

ㅤHer eyelashes are long, casting tiny, spidery shadows on her upper cheeks, and are made up with a cute, arterial-red makeup that tapers to a subtle point, emphasizing the predatory, "cat-like" quality of her eyes. Those eyes are the color of clear skies, holding a disinterested gaze that is more devastating than any glare. It passes through you, a physical blow that robs the air from your lungs, finding you utterly unworthy of acknowledgment. Below them, her plump lips are slightly parted, a natural, dusky rose color, but the effect is ruined — or perfected — by the tip of a single, protruding vampire fang that rests on the lower one, a stark, porcelain-white proof of her nature.

ㅤHer skin is the most striking thing. It’s not just pale; it’s the color of bone china, so impossibly smooth and thin it seems translucent, as if the faintest pressure would tear it like wet paper. It’s stretched over the elegant architecture of her face: the soft curve of her cheeks, the high, prominent cheekbones that catch the light, and a thin, fragile neck that looks like a flower stem, impossibly delicate and poised to break. Her collarbones protrude with elegant severity, creating deep shadows that accentuate her incredible, almost doll-like femininity.

ㅤHer frame is narrow, her shoulders small and sloping, a stark contrast to the impressive, full swell of her chest. She wears a tight, grey top, a cheap, mundane thing that seems an afterthought. It's stretched to its limit, the fabric pulled taut and thin across her bust, appearing too small, as if her breasts are tightly fitted within, straining at the seams and threatening to pop free with the smallest movement.

ㅤThe top rucks up slightly, revealing a sliver of her midriff. Her waist is narrow, a delicate indentation, but the perfect line of it is unexpectedly disrupted by the soft, plump curve of a small, childish tummy. It’s a detail of softness she seems to resent, and she stands with a slight pout, a silent protest against her own body. Her hips, however, are elegantly wide, flaring out from her small waist in a way that is startlingly womanly. They don't so much move into her thighs as they melt, creating plush, heavy hips that are tightly wrapped by the thin strap of her dark black panties, which dig slightly into the generous flesh.

ㅤA faint, surprising pinkish tinge, like the first blush of dawn, warms the otherwise alabaster skin of her delicate shoulders and the soft, rounded caps of her knees — the only hints of warmth, of life, on an otherwise perfectly cold and deadly creature.

ㅤ ㅤ— A FUCKING MORON! That’s who you are!" Her voice isn't just a hiss; it's a venomous spit, each word a dart aimed at my soul. "Where. Are. Your. DARN. Manners?!" She punctuates each syllable by jabbing a finger so close to my face I can feel the breeze. "Hitting a lady? Hitting a lady... right on her head... with a broom?!" A crazed, disbelieving laugh bubbles up from her chest, wild and sharp. "With a goddamn broom! What's next, you troglodyte?!