The city was quiet under the cloak of night, lit only by scattered streetlamps and the flickering neon signs of distant traffic. After a long day at the hospital, Dr. Jackson Wang loosened his tie and stepped out of the clinic. The air was crisp, clean—almost too quiet.
Then his phone rang.
He froze when he saw the number.
He knew it. Too well.
A shadow from a life he'd buried long ago.
With a breath, he answered.
"Come to the old water tower," the voice said.
No name. No explanation. But he didn't need one.
Fifteen minutes later, his car pulled up to the edge of an abandoned road just before the tower. And there she was—standing alone under a lamppost like a ghost from another time.
A woman, mid-twenties. Long black dress. A small black hat with a veil. Holding an umbrella under a sky that held no rain.
Her face.
It resembled someone—someone Jackson once cherished… and lost.
He stepped out of the car slowly.
"I was wondering when they'd send you," he said.
She didn't smile. Her voice was flat. "The Organization wants you back, Doctor."
His jaw clenched. "I'm done. I don't want to be a puppet."
She looked at him from beneath her hat. "You don't have a choice. You never did."
"I do now."
Her eyes lingered for a beat. "I didn't come here to argue, only to deliver the message."
She turned and began to walk away, her heels clicking faintly against the cracked pavement.
Just before stepping into the shadows, she paused. "You gave me life once, Doctor Wang. But that life belongs to them now. Think about that."
Then she disappeared into the dark, leaving only silence and the faint scent of winter air behind.
Jackson stood alone, haunted—not just by her—but by the truth that came with her.
The past never really dies.
Especially when you resurrect it.
Jackson Wang's Story
Before he became the doctor with smiling eyes, before he ever held a scalpel or taught students with patience and quiet grace, Jackson Wang was a prodigy—a name whispered in the highest academic circles of China. By the age of sixteen, he was crowned the Number 1 student in the country for his unmatched brilliance in chemistry and medicine. It wasn't long before he was recruited into a joint initiative by the Chinese and Russian governments, a covert operation known as the Celestial Project.
The goal was as ambitious as it was terrifying: resurrection. Not metaphorical, but literal. To bring back the dead—revived in new, enhanced bodies. At first, it was theory. Then, experiments. And soon, Jackson's life would be consumed by it.
He devoted over twenty years to the project, not only helping to design its core systems but also formulating the chemical chains that allowed the dead to live again. But no resurrection came without consequences. Every subject brought back needed blood—craved it like air. They became something… inhuman. Something like vampires.
To control these beings, the organization embedded them with a chemical dependency—a compound only the organization could provide. It meant no one could escape. No one except Jackson.
He had no plans to become part of the experiment. But fate, cruel as ever, intervened.
One day, while he was traveling with his small family, a wife and a daughter, something happened; The crash was brutal. His car overturned on the icy highway, shattering metal and bone alike. Luckily, his wife and daughter were alive, injured, but breathing. He wasn't. Jackson Wang was declared dead on arrival.
His body was sent back to the lab. A tragic loss. But to the scientists, an opportunity. He had once crafted the very formulas they needed to revive others—now, he would become their proof.
When Jackson awoke, he was no longer human. Disoriented. Starving. Uncontrollable.
His wife and daughter, not knowing what he'd become, had been brought in to see him. To comfort him. But what they found was a creature with empty eyes and the instincts of a beast. He tore through the security. The hunger overwhelmed him. By the time he came to his senses, they were gone—torn apart by his own hands.
The blood was everywhere.
The screams, the chaos… and the silence that followed.
He collapsed to the ground in horror, cradling what remained of the people he loved most.
That was the end of Jackson Wang. At least, to the world.
The lab shut down the project. Files were erased. Witnesses silenced. And Jackson—he ran. With every last formula locked inside his mind, he vanished into obscurity, never forgiving himself, never speaking their names again.
He now hides in plain sight, practicing medicine with care and warmth, as though saving lives might one day atone for the ones he took. But every time he washes his hands and smells the blood… a part of the beast remembers.
And it smiles.
Sleepless Silence
The house was silent, but Jackson Wang's mind was anything but.
He sat alone in his study, the pale glow of his desk lamp casting shadows under his tired eyes. Papers were untouched. The book on his lap had remained unread for hours. His fingers tapped restlessly on the armrest of his chair as thoughts coiled in his head like smoke refusing to fade.
"If I don't go back, will they come for me? For Nuong?"
He clenched his jaw, the memory of the woman in black still vivid. Her eyes—cold, distant, familiar. She wasn't just a messenger. She was a warning.
What drained him more than the fear of the Organization, however, was the gnawing hunger rising in his chest.
Downstairs, beneath the well-lit, warm family home, was a hidden door leading to a cold, sterile room. It was his secret space—where he kept the blood supply locked in refrigeration units, enough to keep his monstrous side at bay. But it was gone now. The final packet, used last night.
Jackson's reflection in the study window looked pale, almost ghostly. He loosened his collar and rubbed the back of his neck. The thirst was there again—feral, throbbing, reminding him of what he was.
A light knock broke the silence.
He turned sharply, instincts heightened, but then came the soft voice.
"Pa?"
It was Nuong.
Jackson quickly sat upright and straightened his expression. "Come in."
Nuong peeked in, her expression filled with concern. She held a small tray—soup, rice, and a few side dishes.
"You didn't eat dinner. I… I made this for you."
Jackson's heart ached.
Even in her young age, Nuong noticed. She always did. Always watching, always listening. She was so used to worrying about others, she forgot to rest herself.
He forced a gentle smile and stood. "You cooked this?"
She nodded. "I know it's not that good… but I tried. You're always taking care of me. I want to do something for you too."
He walked over, took the tray from her with careful hands, and set it on the table.
"I'm the luckiest man in the world," he said softly.
Nuong beamed.
Jackson sat down and picked up the spoon. The food tasted like home—warm, humble, made with love. But his body, twisted by science and cursed by resurrection, rejected everything but blood.
Still, he forced each bite down.
"For you," he whispered, not loud enough for Nuong to hear. "I'll be strong."
Nuong yawned beside him, head resting against his arm, her eyelids heavy.
"Go to bed, sweetheart," he murmured, brushing her hair from her eyes.
"But you didn't finish eating…"
"I will. I promise. You need your rest, alright?"
With a sleepy nod, she stood and kissed him on the cheek before walking away.
As she disappeared down the hallway, Jackson stared down at the unfinished meal. His hands trembled. The thirst grew louder.
But his love for that girl… was louder.
He turned away from the food, hands clenched tight, eyes glinting with unspoken pain.
"I can't let the monster win. Not tonight."
Morning Surgery
The hospital hallway buzzed with the early shift. Nurses moved swiftly, machines beeped, and the scent of antiseptic filled the air. But for Doctor Jackson Wang, none of it mattered.
He stood in the changing room, white coat crisp, gloves tight on his trembling hands. His eyes—sunken, darkened by a sleepless night—stared at his reflection.
"You can do this," he whispered to himself. "Just one more day."
But the thirst clawed at his throat like fire. His body was too quiet. Too sharp. He could hear things others couldn't—the heartbeat of the patient waiting in the operating room… the pulse of a nurse down the hall. The smell of blood in the air was like perfume to a cursed man.
8:03 a.m. – Surgery Begins
Jackson walked into the operating room, calm and collected. The nurses greeted him, one of them—Nika—handed him the first scalpel. He nodded silently.
The patient was prepped. A deep abdominal wound, hemorrhaging. A complicated case. The blood was already soaking the gauze, the sheets, the gloves.
And Jackson stood over it, fighting everything inside him.
His hands moved with grace, as always. The staff admired how precise he was, how confident. But today, every movement was a battle.
He felt it.
His fangs — the ones he kept hidden — almost itched beneath his gums. His breathing slowed, controlled. Sweat traced along his temple under the mask. The scent of iron in the air teased his sanity.
He finished the incision.
He repaired the damage.
He stitched with precision.
And the moment the final suture was tied and the team began to clean up, Jackson stepped back.
"I need… to take a moment," he muttered, voice hoarse.
Without waiting for a response, he quickly left the room and made his way through the hospital's back corridors—every step heavier, darker, until he reached the secured blood storage room in the basement.
He punched in the code. Door unlocked.
The cold air hit his face. Rows of blood packs lined the freezers. He rushed to one, tore open the seal of a fresh unit, and drank like a man dying of thirst—silent, hidden.
Relief flooded him.
But he didn't see the shadow just around the corner.
Nika, the nurse from earlier, had followed.
She stopped at the end of the hallway, holding a clipboard, pretending to check supplies—but her eyes were on the room Jackson disappeared into.
He's always been secretive, she thought. But something's different today. He looked… ravenous.
She tilted her head, curious—but unwilling to risk being caught. After a long pause, she quietly turned and left.
Inside the storage room, Jackson leaned against the cold wall, closing his eyes.
"That was too close…"
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, then exhaled deeply, shoulders trembling.
He was still in control—for now.
The night was heavy. Rain tapped softly on the windows. The lights in Jackson Wang's house were dim, most of them off—except for the study light left flickering, and the soft orange glow from the fireplace in the living room.
Jackson sat alone in the dark kitchen, a mug of cold tea in his hands. He hadn't touched it.
The blood bag he had earlier wasn't enough.
Not anymore.
The hunger returned fast—faster than it used to. His mind was fraying at the edges.
He had read all the files, tried every herbal suppressant, every synthetic formula, but nothing stopped it. Nothing satisfied it like fresh, warm blood.
And then… he heard it.
A soft sigh.
From the living room couch.
Nuong had fallen asleep there—curled up, still holding the book she'd been reading aloud earlier. A sweet smile lingered on her lips, as if she'd drifted into a happy dream. The blanket had fallen slightly off her shoulder, exposing the side of her neck.
He froze.
His body moved before his mind could stop it.
Jackson stood, slowly… silently.
He walked toward her. Step by step.
His breath hitched as he stood beside her sleeping form.
Her scent… it was warm. Familiar. The girl who called him Dad. The one who brought light back into his hollow life. The one who cooked for him even when he couldn't eat. The one who healed what science and blood never could.
But now...
The hunger whispered.
Just one drop. She wouldn't feel it. She would never know.
His fangs pushed forward.
His hands trembled as he leaned down… closer… the heat of her skin brushing his lips.
And then—she shifted in her sleep.
"Mmm… Daddy…"
One word.
Soft.
Innocent.
Enough to break him.
His eyes widened. Reality crashed down like a tidal wave.
Jackson staggered back, gasping.
"No…" he whispered to himself. "No, not her. Never her."
He gripped the edge of the couch, fingers trembling.
"What have I become?" he thought. "How long can I keep this monster chained?"
He looked at her again—peaceful, unaware of the danger that almost touched her.
He picked up the blanket and gently tucked her in.
Then, with a trembling hand, he brushed her hair back and kissed her forehead.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "Sleep well, my angel…"
And then he walked away—into the dark hallway, where no one could see him cry.