It was a cool night, a calm night.
The moon hung low enough in the sky that it almost seemed to scrape the tops of the Newer New York City skyscrapers. It was also a little dim, as it was surrounded by hoard of clouds that seemed intent on covering up its otherworldly illumination—but it nonetheless kept shining, prying away the shadows the city lights tended to ignore, and revealing unseemly things that should have remained hidden.
The city of Newer New York was one that never slept, one that never truly felt rest; at all hours or the night, there was a light from at least one reckless, rebellious individual, as if each inhabitant of the towering city took shifts in keeping the lights on. The same could usually be said about the streets and tracks; traffic, trains and traveling was common even in the wee hours of night, the honks of horns, roar of cars and shouts of indignation from a pedestrian white noise to the early birds who slept.
No one was on the streets; no one was driving about. The only people around outside were those who seemed to have something more important than their lives going on, and even they finished their business quickly in hopes of returning to their warm beds, safe and sound.
Yes; the city of Newer New York—a city full of screaming night owls and loose drunks—was silent. The illumination of the buildings, apartments and towers was still as present as always, but the inhabitants did not have the usual feistiness or spunk that came with being a citizen of Newer New York, of being a part of a community that dominated the world as technologically advanced giants.
The entire city was holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter the uneasy silence of the city.
It was a quiet night; so quiet, a bloodcurdling scream from someone being murdered or molested would not have been much of a surprise to hear—in fact, it would have actually been welcome, as at least some of the societal tension would be released.
But, rest assured, there would be no screams of the dying to haunt this calm, quiet night—the huntress in pursuit of her prey was too skilled to allow such a slip-up to occur.
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It happened in an alleyway, at the edge of the Bronx, squished between two apartment buildings of concrete and iron. It was filthy in that alley, with trashcans overturned, spilling rotten fruits, food and items, and headless, human corpses all disjointed and stiff, their bodies on the ground and against the walls, the heads in the center of the alley, near the perpetrators feet in a sick display of artistry.
"P-please... I-I'm sorry, I'll never do it again so please—"
Blood splattered the walls and the killer as the body was discarded roughly, the head of the begging person gently being placed to make a ring around the blood-covered person.
"Fuu~ how annoying... I'll need to dry-clean my clothes it seems..." she muttered, wiping the red from her face and hands, only for it to smear.
At the feet of the huntress laid the seven severed heads of the now murdered prey, with pure, unfiltered terror carved so deeply into their faces, it seemed that fear was their cause of death instead of the swift, yet huge blade of the huntress who had been their personal grim reaper.
Blood was splattered on the walls around her, the pungent musk of urine from the prey she hunted mixing with the iron of the blood, the tears of the dead still falling into the puddles of blood.
She wrinkled her hyper-sensitive nose at the scent as it burned her nostrils, but she had smelled and endured much worse, and as such, she soon adapted to the unsavory scent.
One thing was for sure—a nice, long shower would be required when she returned home; she refused to be rendered unclean from such useless and more annoying than entertaining game.
Besides, even if she had technically bribed city officials, it still did not stop a lone, well-meaning police officer from attempting to thwart her dinner plans—and if they did, then she would have to make room for dessert, and the officials would not like that at all.
They never seemed to like it, no matter the century.
However, as much as she would like that shower, unfortunately she needed to deal with the pretty boy who was bleeding out on the side. Her head turned, a red eye that seemed to glow in the shadows being exposed, the slit of her pupil sharpening as she analyzed the injury she dealt to him—fatal, of course, but nonetheless survivable.
She had done her work well as usual.
See, whilst she was slaying her game for provisions for the next week—hence the seven targets—Mr. Pretty Boy here had decided to evolve into Mr. Hero-Complex, and had attempted to interfere with her monthly business of hunting and murder.
Naturally, she could not allow him to come out unscathed, so while she removed the fifth game's head, she simultaneously had slashed him across the stomach and kicked him against the alley wall before facing the sixth prey, which was soon followed by the seventh, whose head she personally ripped off.
Lucky for him—he had gotten to be graced by her touch—but now that the entertainment was over, she had to deal with the boy.
Of course, it would be simple to decapitate him like all the others—he was human after all, no need to keep him breathing—but it was a bit more complicated than that.
While she could have done so, she chose not to because he was a pretty boy; her vanity would not condone him to be without injury, but her obsession refused to harm his pretty face.
She sighed—why did the pretty things always break so easily? Always interfering, always protesting, always being loved—it was annoying for her to witness, because even if they were the scum of the Earth, they were so pretty she always hesitated to kill them, and this one was a 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 pretty one.
Perhaps it was ironic for her to feel such annoyance towards pretty things; she too was a pretty little thing, emphasis on the 'pretty' and the 'little'.
Then again, she was not a typical pretty thing: she was five foot nothing and was wielding a blade that was one foot and seven inches in total taller than her, counting the blade and the handle; she managed killed seven people with a huge blade in a narrow alleyway, and injured another during the hunt; she was covered in blood, but looked like an angel from heaven.
Not your typical pretty little thing indeed.
The huntress turned to face him properly as she studied him with interest, the moonlight that broke through the barrier of clouds highlighting slim, pale legs and a slight, athletic frame. Again, it was difficult to imagine that such a frail looking woman could overpower and hunt the taller, stronger, more physically intimidating men and woman, but the type of hunters they had been were different.
They had been screeching, howling wolves, brutes that hunted with savagery and crassness, hungering for food, animals that found ecstasy in the tearing of meat off their preys bones, screaming with madness.
She was a leopard—a snow leopard it seemed, if her seeming stereotypical albinism had anything to say about her species. She was lean, quiet; she waited for the opportune moment with intelligence, before dealing the decisive, killing blow.
She had been the cat, and the victims had been the mice.
That was what the bleeding, dying boy had observed through blurry ocean eyes and a rapidly cooling body.
The white figure whom he could see approached him slowly, her steps as feline as the animal she reminded him of, before she crouched in front of him smoothly, her blurred features coming into view.
The dying human noted that yes, she was a stereotypical albino—with a red eye, pale skin, and white, chin length hair that covered her other eye; he deduced either a scar, or maybe even heterochromia from the care she seemed to place in hiding her other eye.
"Well, well, well, aren't you a pretty boy. Do you have albinism like me? Inherited trait as well, or is it just a mutation only in you? I wonder..."
Her voice was—contrary to her more so delicate appearance and even less in line with her so far warped personality and actions—a mid-pitched, almost sultry alto tone that promised a thousand different things and held a million different attitudes, with her current one trying to coax him to rest.
He, of course, refused; sleeping right now entailed his certain death, but hearing a 1920s, 1940s singer voice coming from a maniacal and violent albino was certainly an... experience, to say the least.
"Why..." his voice cracked, his lungs heaving for air as his head spun from blood loss. He needed to stop the cold from creeping in, but his arms seemed unable to move.
'𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴... 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴... 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥... 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦...'
"'Why?'" she repeated, tilting her head to reveal a purple eye that seemed to glow with inner light, just like her red one.
"Hmm..."
He wondered why she needed to think about it; she literally almost disemboweled him—should she not at least have a reason? Also, what was her name?
He was set on cursing it when he went to Hell.
"I guess..." his attention drifted back towards her and out of his thoughts as she continued, "...it's because of your eyes; they're really pretty, did you know that? Then again, you're just pretty overall, but I didn't decapitate you because hurting such a pretty face would be a sin, no?"
"..."
The dying boy was speechless. So, here he was, bleeding out on the ground in a filthy alleyway, because some random monster had chosen to spare his pretty face on account of it being a sin?
'...𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴; 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣!𝘵𝘤𝘩.'
A blizzard seemed to be brewing in his eyes, the oceanic color freezing to frost and the temperature dropping a little as a deep, dark rage rested on his countenance. The huntress blinked at the change, a strange light blooming in her red, red eye.
'𝙃𝙤𝙝~? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙦𝙪𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩, 𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙧𝙮; 𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙖 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙮 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨? 𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙝𝙚'𝙙 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚... 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜... 𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙄 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙪𝙡𝙜𝙚 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚?'
A smile blossomed across her pretty, pretty face, her revealed eye crinkling in a beautiful crescent before she leaned even closer to the dying man.
With the backdrop of the moon's light on her silhouette, she seemed to be similar to a destroying angel—a demon hiding beneath a lambs wool, whilst she hunted the other sheep of the flock.
Only now did he see the horns that peeked from her white hair; only now did the long, thin tail that swished side-to-side register in his hazy, fading mind. Here she was, as lovely, smiley and innocent-looking as an angel, splattered with crimson droplets and stains, the Devil on her countenance.
He chose not to bother with asking her why she killed those men; he supposed that it could have been for sport, considering her remorseless comments after the murder.
He wouldn't put it pass someone who was letting him bleed out just because she liked his 'pretty' eyes to do so.
Hatred simmered in his eyes as the demons smile widened, a sick gleam in her eye.
"Say, wanna make a deal with me?"
The question triggered the dying man, and with a low voice that promised revenge he spat with his remaining voice, "Go to Hell."
A crooked edge that was almost endearing to see curled onto her face, a confidence about her that both attracted and repelled beings revealed in her doll-like visage.
"And leave you here all alone?"
His brow twitched, confusion howling through him in a rush as the glacier in his eyes melted a little.
What did she mean?
He did not know what she meant, but whatever it was, he already disliked it. Maybe because it was she who was proposing it—he wanted to reject it if only to run counter to her desires and will.
Call it childish, but he was nothing if not vindictive towards those who pissed him off.
"So," she continued languidly, a slyness about her expression, "how about I Convert you into another me, train you up into a feisty little beast, and then let you have a go at killing me?"
'...𝘏𝘶𝘩?'
A blank look entered his eyes as questions and confusion ran rampant in his poor mind—was he going to die or not?—as the demoness snapped her fingers, his wound stitching shut but his mind still scrambled from the loss of blood he suffered.
"There, the blood's stopped at least. I'd suggest not moving darling—wouldn't want to trip and become concussed on top of anemic."
"...Why... huh?"
A giggle—one that was akin to a cherubs laughter—overcame the canvas of her face. She was all laughs and chuckles, wasn't she?
It made him want to break his promise that he made with his mother so long ago and sock that infernal smile off her face, but given his current condition, it was unwise to move.
"Because I want to? You're interesting—I'm sure you'd be a riot to be around, since you seem like a stereotypical straight man out of a manga. Your reactions would be so entertaining to witness!"
"...So you want me to live... because I'd be fun to have around..."
"Yeah!"
"...Go to Hell—I'll meet you there... and cuss you out properly then..."
Overcome with amusement, she was all but hollering her laughter at the human's pathetic struggle; it was almost cute, seeing how he was determined to screw her over.
"Ha! That's the attitude I want to see! Now, about the deal—"
"Screw off."
"Oh, come on! Please, do you want to live or not? Cause I'll happily kill you if you want me to—I'm very good at killing in fact."
Ryosei would have gladly snarked, 'Yeah, I can tell,' at her killing comment, but the talk of him surviving and living was jarring to hear.
First, she wanted to kill him, now, she wants to save him—honestly, he could not get a read on her at all.
If she was indecisive on whether or not to kill him, why would she injury him?
"Oh, by the way, that little blood block is just a stop-gap—it'll open up if you try to actually start moving, and I made sure to cut your intestines so there's internal bleeding still happening. The closest hospital is 20 miles away from here; you wouldn't make it past the first block."
The mans eyes furrowed at that—so in other words, she really wants him to hear her out? What a thoroughly annoying woman. But if it was true, then...
The image of a smiling, black haired, ocean-eyed girl came to mind—"Ryosei!"
He pursed his lips—if he died, then...
A long sigh punctuated the air, coldly shining eyes staring up at the insane woman before he inquired, "What's the deal?"
That crooked smile overcame her face even more, her jewel eyes gleaming before she leaned in and whispered, "I can save you. I can save you, and make you a version of yourself you'd have never imagine—beautiful, genius, strong, powerful, wise... though there will be a price, naturally. Even so, will you risk it?"
Hesitation hung in the air around him, indecisiveness warring with survival within those lovely eyes. Her smile began to fade, boredom seeping into her bones during her wait as she murmured, "Going once... going twice..."
"Fine. But I swear... at the end of this, I will kill you."
A laugh resounded in the silent city, the triumph of one who had gotten what they desired ringing through the air.
"Perfect!" she exclaimed, "now, what is your name, human?"
"Kocho... Ryosei..."
The demon tilted her head, a peculiar gleam in her eye as she murmured inaudibly, "Kocho... butterfly? Interesting..." before she regained her smile and gently replied, "That's a lovely name you've got there, butterfly boy."
A glare from him made her laugh some more before she sobered slightly and began the "Conversion", otherwise known as the "Turning".
"I, Eika, Royal High Demon and High Pure Vampire, acknowledge you, Kocho Ryosei, to be granted a second life. Due to the nature of my power, you must choose to be either a High Vampire, or a High Demon. Of which of these two paths of reincarnation do you choose?"
"...Demon."
"I have heard your request! Now, in the name of He Who Observes the Darkness, I will grant you the second life!"
Her fangs grew longer, more visible, before she bit into his neck, draining the remains of his body's sparse blood. His blue eyes grew dimmer and dimmer, fluttering shut as the cold finally took ahold of him, dragging him under as his consciousness began to float away.
The last things he heard and felt was his head being moved into a warm place, and the gentle, almost angelic voice of the demon Eika—the difference between what she was and what she sounded like still jarring to him.
"Sleep well. I'll be waiting for you, little butterfly."
Then the undertow pulled him under, and all sense of self was washed away.