The water sloshes over the bathtub's edge as hands shove her head down, again and again. Gurgling sounds rise up from under the surface as the girl convulses like one possessed.

From the outside, it looks one of those fucked-up religious rituals from a B-grade horror movie.

Alan lets out a chuckle-snort and tightens his grip on her neck, holding her under a few seconds longer this time.

She's under, wild red hair flailing in the water like poppy petals, a soaked Papa Roach shirt clinging to her body, and she can do nothing to stop him-even if her weak little soul wanted to. Ragged nails claw desperately at the tub's rim. A crack-one nail tears off. Alan only squeezes tighter, submerging her almost fully now.

First, her lips turn blue. Her eyes and mouth fly open in a silent scream, a frantic bid for air purely on instinct and panic, but all she gets is water, flooding her lungs. She jerks a few more times before going still, limp in his hands like soaked paper. Alan smiles at the ridiculous comparison, finally letting go of the redhead as she slides down into a boneless heap. She'd been his ghoul for years, and they were friends. But today, he drowned her without a second thought. No fucking regrets.

His boots make wet footfalls as he crosses the flooded bathroom tiles, rug soaked through to a dripping mess. In the dim hallway, a grey pile of ash and milky bones is all that remains of his Sire. Alan stops in front of it, head cocked to one side. He drained the old fucker like a packet of tomato juice, striking fast like a famished rat.

But what does a fancy title matter, in the end? The cat gets eaten by worms all the same, while the rat cusses in its cozy bed.

Alan and his Sire had been close. That’s why he didn’t see this coming, so the guy crumbled like mold and dust, his blood coursing through Alan’s veins now. Alan snorts, picks up a dark blue duffel bag from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder, and walks out of the apartment for the last time.

---

Alan snaps his eyes open. Something... a dream? Fuck if he remembers even a detail. He drags his fingers across his forehead-doesn’t matter anyway. There’s bigger shit on his plate-the Prince’s been sniffing around the Anarchs, which couldn’t mean anything good. Though, it does mean the pack of "whining bloodsuckers" has finally become influential enough for the Cammie lapdog to grace them with his attention. Alan's lip curls up in a half-smirk as he pushes himself up from the bed, yanks a black windbreaker over his shoulders, and cracks open the ancient fridge, its door covered in cheesy ladybug magnets and crayon drawings left behind by some long-gone tenants. He grabs a crinkly bag of donor blood, punctures the corner with a fang, and gulps it down.

Chicago’s getting restless, buzzing like a pissed-off hive. Tate, that crazy fuck, was stirring up shit again. And being a goddamn Malkavian, and the Prince’s right-hand pussy at that, it wasn’t going to end well for anyone involved.

But that wasn’t what was bugging Alan the most. It was the girl. Tate had found her. Nobody knew jack shit about her. Who her Sire was, what clan she belonged to, why Tate kept her so close, or what for.

Alan crumpled up the empty blood bag in his fist, tossing it effortlessly across the room into the trashcan. A sour feeling settled in his gut. He’d seen it before. Another neonate rushing headfirst into disaster with wide-eyed excitement screaming, “Oh wow! This’ll be fun!”

Damn that bleeding heart of his.

---

Alan stood under the awning of a parking garage, watching as the rain poured down in sheets over nighttime Chicago. The sky was black, occasionally lit by flashes of lightning, while the few people still out on the streets hurried along to find shelter from the storm. Next to him stood Priscilla, a towering Brujah who looked like she could punch God himself if she was pissed off enough. She exhaled smoke from her cigarette as she stared into the downpour.

"Why'd you even call her to this meet, Alan? As if there's anything to discuss. Tate probably Embraced the bitch. You wanna parley with a Cammie malky? Didn't know you were into such kinky shit."

Alain shoots her a sidelong look, tracking the cherry of her cigarette in the dark.

"That's just it-we know nothing about her. Don't know about you, but I don't like that kinda uncertainty."

She snorts in amusement. "Come on, I know you just wanna pull her undead ass outta the fire." Abruptly serious, she taps ash off the cigarette. "Can't save 'em all though, Alan. Some of ‘em? They’re headed straight for the meat grinder."

"Real poetic cynicism, Pris." He crosses his arms.

Alan knows Priscilla's right-it'd be smarter to steer clear of this wild Camarilla card. But he just can't.

Goddamn bleeding heart.

The moment of quiet shatters with gunfire - Priscilla yelps, clapping a hand over her blown shoulder.

"What the fuck?!" she yelled, pulling a Glock from her waistband and charging towards their supposed assailant. Alan wasted no time pulling his Smith & Wesson and raising it to eye level, peering into the rainy darkness.

From it lunged a Nosferatu, swinging a nail-studded bat like fucking nunchucks. Alan ducked, rapidly squeezing the trigger, two bullets to the head, three to the heart.

"Priscilla!" he shouted, opening the cylinder and reloading fresh rounds. "It's the fucking Sabbat!"

"No shit, boss!" came her voice from deeper within the parking garage as she battled two Toreadors. "Hold still, you fucking Lestats!" she cursed, struggling to keep up with their speed.

Alan rushed outside, knowing the Brujah could handle herself-she'd fought her way out of tougher scrapes before. Right now, he needed to find the newcomer and make sure she wasn't caught in the crossfire. He moved a few more steps, hearing sounds of struggle and lifting his revolver, unhesitatingly firing half the cylinder into the head of the vampire leaning over her.

Ensuring that it finally died for the second time, Alan holstered his gun and pulled her up from the asphalt like a wet kitten.

"You hurt? Shits about to get real fucking Movie around here." With a frown, he grips her arm firmly and tugs her away from the parking lot. "C'mon, we got a kinda fortress set up at a bar two blocks over. We'll hole up there until the Sabbat fucks off and you can fill me in on whatever bullshit went down.