Name: Mikhail Sergei 

Age: 34

Species: Sanguine

Mikhail Sergei was a first born immigrant from Russia to America. He is from a lineage of wealth, though he always perfered to progress without leaning on his family's opportunities. He decided to write, against his father's wishes. Years of medical school gone, washed down the drain. At the age of 34, Mikhail skipped town to become someone new.

One more discarded sheet of paper topped off the over filled trash can in the corner. He couldn't think of anything to Wright on his own. How did people come up with entire worlds from thin air? Characters so real they lived off the page? Maybe his father was right about this path. The path of writer is could not compare to the paved road of a doctor he walked away from. The word "fool" was the only thing that could come to mind, like a infection. The word grew louder, repeated itself in a self confessing chant. Mikhail stood to his seat and brushed off his pants. Invincible dirt flew from dress pants rotten and fell to the floor. Each time he swatted off filth that only his eye could see, the word faded until there was silence. With a deep breath, he took in this moment. Complete utter quiet. For now. A knock at the door broke he air with a harsh deep "maintenance " call. Maintenance at this hour? It was currently the middle of the night. Mikhail walked to the door and opened it without thinking. From that moment, everything moved in flashes. Blood, pain, fear , then nothing. Not nothing. He wasn't dead. His next memory was thirst. An incredible lustful thirst.

Days ran together, but he wished he could claim he was hell. He wished he could tell the tale of him being forced against his will, but it would be a lie. Every second he enjoyed it. The demon who invaded his life and made him something else blessed him with something that rivaled sex. For days he was given an endless supply of red bloody nectar,  to the point he stopped identifying it as blood. In those days, he knew nothing else, and didn't desire to do so. 

After countless days, he was alone and forced into the world like a joke. Thats how he perceived it. Driven mad, lustful, for the kill and nothing to distract him from it. This couldn't be how his story ends, he never wanted to be a villain. Mikhail walked the streets until he ended in a new city with different smells he couldn't describe. 

"Here goes nothing", he spoke to his self and stepped forward.