Chapter 56 56

Chapter 56 56
The following night moved with a different rhythm. There was no sudden panic, no hurried footsteps, only vigilance held tightly behind closed eyelids. I stayed awake longer than usual, counting the sounds outside, sorting which were merely wind and which were truly human.
Dahlia shifted softly. Her breathing grew heavier.
I moved closer and knelt beside the bed. “Dahlia,” I called quietly.
Her eyelids fluttered before opening. “I didn’t sleep well,” she said. “There’s a burning feeling in my chest.”
“You want water.”
She nodded. I handed her the glass. Her hand trembled as she drank. A few drops spilled onto her chin and slid down her neck.
She wiped them away quickly. “Sorry.”
“No need.”
I sat cross-legged, staring at the floor. “We’re going to change the plan.”
Dahlia straightened. “How.”
“We look for a blood donation schedule,” I said. “Not a big hospital. A small clinic. There’s usually leftover stock that gets discarded.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Every option carries risk.”
She fell silent. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“I know. That’s why we move like shadows.”
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance. Dahlia winced and covered her ears.
“I hate that sound,” she said. “It reminds me of the hunt.”
“I’m here.”
She looked at me for a long moment. “Brother… if I change… if I lose control… will you leave me.”
The question struck straight through my chest.
“I won’t leave,” I answered without hesitation. “Not now. Not ever.”
She exhaled deeply, as if releasing a weight. “Alright.”
Morning slipped in with a gray hue. We woke early and changed into more neutral clothing. I brushed Dahlia’s hair and tied it simply.
“We look like ordinary siblings,” she said, trying to smile.
“We are.”
We walked through the narrow alley, greeting shop owners with brief nods. The air was filled with the scent of bitter coffee and burnt bread. Dahlia swallowed, suppressing the sensation in her throat.
“You’re okay,” I whispered.
She nodded.
At the end of the street, a small clinic opened its doors. Its sign was faded. I stopped.
“We’re not going in now,” I said. “I just want to see the schedule.”
A nurse stepped outside carrying a red plastic bag. My eyes followed her movements until the bag was placed into a medical container.
Dahlia tugged my sleeve. “That.”
“I know.”
“We come back tonight.”
“No,” I replied quickly. “We don’t steal. We talk.”
She stared at me as if I were insane. “They won’t give it to us.”
“I’ll try.”
That afternoon, I returned alone. Dahlia waited in the room. Behind the reception desk, a middle-aged woman looked at me with tired eyes.
“Can I help you.”
“I’m looking for work,” I said. “Anything. Cleaning. Carrying boxes.”
She examined me from head to toe. “We don’t have any openings.”
“I can volunteer,” I said. “A few hours.”
She sighed. “Why.”
“I need money. And… help.”
Silence hung between us. Finally, she said, “Come with me.”
We talked in a small room. I chose my words carefully. About a sick sibling. About special needs. About not having insurance.
She leaned back. “There are procedures.”
“I understand.”
She studied me for a long time. “I can give you unused nutritional packs. But only once. Don’t come back.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
That night, I returned with a small cooler box. Dahlia’s eyes widened.
“Brother.”
“I didn’t steal.”
She opened the lid. Inside, a small blood pouch lay neatly stored.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“I’m here.”
She drank slowly. Color returned to her cheeks. Her breathing steadied. I watched every second, ready to stop her if needed.
When she finished, she rested her head on my shoulder. “I feel… alive.”
I smiled faintly. “Rest.”
The days that followed settled into a new pattern. Mornings spent reading the city. Afternoons doing odd jobs. Nights hiding. I taught Dahlia techniques to suppress scent, redirect focus, count her breaths. She learned quickly.
One night, noise erupted in the hallway. I turned off the light. Footsteps stopped in front of our door. A soft knock.
“This room,” a man’s voice said.
My heart pounded.
I approached silently. “Who is it.”
“Management.”
I opened the door slightly. An unfamiliar face. His gaze swept quickly over the room.
“There’s been a complaint about odors,” he said.
“I’ll clean,” I replied.
He nodded and left.
I locked the door and leaned against it. Dahlia stared at me, tense.
“We need to move,” she said.
“Not yet,” I answered. “We reinforce the disguise.”
That day we bought cleaning supplies and scented candles. Dahlia laughed softly as we pretended to be fully human.
“It’s strange,” she said. “But… nice.”
I looked at her. “You’re starting to enjoy it.”
“A little.”
Weeks passed. Our strength returned. I found steady work at a warehouse. Dahlia helped at a secondhand bookstore. We saved money.
One afternoon, Dahlia came home carrying an old book. “About blood control.”
I opened the pages and read the ancient notes. Old methods. Meditation. Structured fasting. I nodded.
“We’ll try.”
That night, we sat cross-legged. Regulating rhythm. Taming urges. Not perfect, but there was progress.
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
She smiled, exhausted. “I learned from you.”
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, we built a small fortress of discipline and trust.
“What’s our goal,” Dahlia asked one night.
“To survive,” I answered. “Then to live.”
She nodded. “I want to go back to school someday.”
I chuckled softly. “We’ll arrange it.”
The room glowed with warm light. No palace. No crown. Just two beings choosing the harder path.
I looked at the window. “As long as we’re together,” I whispered, “we won’t disappear.”
Dahlia closed her eyes, peaceful.
And for the first time, I believed my own words.