Edward was depressed. Not clinically, of course, nothing like that, more in the old meaning of the word. He sat, listless eyes wide in the dark of his study, looking without seeing at a book habit moved him to open.

Three missed calls from employees, and one from a friend, Abraham. What was he supposed to say to them? "As the secret society I was in kicked me out, I don't give a damn about the company anymore." Edward hadn't even bothered to open his emails. How long had it been now? Two months? That sounded right. He had fed a couple of times, mechanically, in the way his Sire hated, but he couldn't bring himself to do more. The date on his phone confirmed it had been almost two months. Underneath was a text, it came in during the day from Abraham.

I know you aren't dead, bastard. Pick up.

A dry chuckled rose from a drier mouth — half right, Abe. Edward laughed hard, almost hysterical. "Fuck me." He knew what he would do; he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself.

A habit Edward had picked up in life: before writing an important email or before having a significant conversation, he would eat. Edward didn't think it worked the same; blood sugar levels hardly mattered, but clear thinking came easier when sated. He changed into black jeans and a grey running jacket. It wasn’t quite two am, so he waited. He always hunted at two am. Edward jogged, purposefully not thinking about the letter he was about to compose. It took a few passes, a few tries. These days, with Ubering, it wasn't always easy.

Tonight was easy. A familiar jacket, messily thrown on a figure, their footfalls slapping the dry cement on the way home. Michael. Edward had fed on him twice before, kind fellow, couldn't hold his liquor worth damn. No unsightly struggle. There was no need to check for onlookers, he knew the man, and the man knew him. Habit had Edward checking regardless. It was good he did, although it might not have mattered anyway.

"Fancy seeing you here, Mike." Edward took down the hood from his jacket, all smiles. A second figure, some twenty feet behind Micheal, paused.

Micheal greeted him with the sincere slack smile of the drunk. "Hell, looking- making me look bad." He steadied himself with a clammy hand on Edward's jacket. Whatever that means.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting you and your friend." Edward looked right at the figure, who froze like a deer in the headlights. This was no experienced felon. Maybe they were trying to work up the guts; perhaps nothing would have happened. Michael squinted, Edward smiled — There was no need to push it. They would leave on their own.

"No- I mean." Micheal paused, collecting himself, but the figure was already crossing the street. Walking down the opposite sidewalk, checking their phone.

"Nevermind that, Mike, I misunderstood." Edward clapped him on the back. "Now you know I told you these streets aren't safe. I'm always looking for the excuse to get out. It is always my pleasure to walk you home." Micheal drunkenly objected, and the nothing conversation rolled on, only interrupted by an inept step. A hand braces itself on Edward, leaving behind further sweat and grease marks. Apologies and assurances were exchanged.

A quarter of an hour later, they were safely inside Michael's apartment. Edward retracted his support, causing the stagging man to fall onto Edward. He bit down on Michael's tender neck. A grunt faded to a moan as Michael's knees went weak; Edward held him vertical. Maybe it was just that Edward was desperate for a way forward, searching for revelation in every shadow, in every turn of phrase, in every thought. Or maybe there really was something to the scene, something more profound about two men, one supporting as they extracted, the other limp and helpless.

This is the way: support and extract.

Edward carried the man to bed, took his shoes off, and poured a glass of water left beside the bed. He sent a short text: locking up and sliding the key under the door. He did just that.

It was a full hour before pen hit paper in Edward's apartment. Not because Michael lived that far away, but because Edward was not yet done thinking. It was not enough to be correct; being correct didn't matter at all. All that mattered was beauty. The single question ‘did it move you?’ So, was something beautiful in that scene, that memory of feeding on Michael? Am I moved? It was the old kind of rule. Protect, support, extract, but it couldn't be because of the extraction. That would be mechanical. That would be.... corporate, modern. The exchange itself had to be beautiful. Why had the world forgotten that?

The hour had almost passed, the door to his apartment before him. The urge to slide the key under the door seized him. He worked the key off the keyring, unlocked the door, knelt and slid the key under the door. Only then opening it. Edward stared at the bare silver half-buried by the rug behind the door. Am I mad?

A few minutes later, pen in hand, he began his first draft. After each draft iteration, he walked to his nightstand to stare at the leopard print and still uncut gemstone; his only reason: it felt right.

I am mad, but better madness than despair.

The next morning, Edward began returning his calls.