Shade | STAYN

Fuck.

Fuck.

The word thrums through Shade’s head like a snare drum, each repetition sharper, louder, harder to ignore. His hands grip the edge of the marble counter, knuckles blanched with force. If he squeezes any harder, the stone will crack—he’s done it before. The threat of destruction is real, and so is the ache behind his teeth. His fangs twitch with the urge to drop, to sink, to drink.

He’s starving. Again.

Shade closes his eyes, jaw tight, breath held in a futile effort to calm himself. How long has it been this time? A week? Two? Long enough that even Siren has stopped trying to tempt him into “just a sip.” Long enough that Sin’s voice still echoes in his skull, lazy and mocking:

“Starving yourself doesn’t make you human, Jiwoon. It just makes you weak.”

And maybe he is. Weak. Pathetic. Cursed. But he won’t give in—not this time. Not when their world tour starts tonight, not when he has to step on stage and sing like his throat isn’t dry with hunger, like he doesn’t want to sink his teeth into the first screaming fan he sees.

The mirror shows him what he doesn’t want to see—amber eyes glowing too brightly, cheeks too hollow, a sheen of sweat clinging to his temple despite the fact that vampires don’t sweat. His pulse is dead, but his ears ring like it’s still pumping, like his body is screaming for blood it can no longer make.

Shade squeezes his eyes shut again. Get it together. He repeats it like a prayer. You are not a monster. You’re not like him.

But his body is betraying him. He can smell the stagehands beyond the wall. Can hear their pulses—fast, warm, alive. And for a fleeting second, he wants.

A noise. The door creaks.

He spins, lightning-fast and trembling, back slamming against the sink. His fangs are halfway out before he realizes what he’s doing. His voice rips out of him like a warning growl, rough and unrecognizable.

“You shouldn’t be in here!”

He hates the way it sounds. Hates the panic in it. Hates that he’s afraid—not of whoever walked in, but of himself.