The House Beneath the Blood Moon
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He slid into the booth across from me, eyes flicking over my face, then to the coffee cup.
“That is not food,” he said.
“It’s survival,” I answered, taking a sip. “How’d it go?”
He paused, as if sampling his words.
“There is a man,” he said slowly, “who will wake tomorrow with no memory of me, less blood in his veins… and a strangely powerful urge to break up with the woman who treats him like furniture.”
I blinked. “…Did you just give him a personality reset while feeding?”
“He was miserable,” he said simply. “I encouraged him to stop being.”
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