Left alone

Luca never remembered his parents clearly. The details blurred over time, until they were just vague shadows in his mind. A warm voice here. A sharp reprimand there. But the only thing that stayed with him was the sound of running—boots pounding on dirt roads, shouts echoing in the distance, and the weight of a hand on his shoulder pulling him forward.

That was the last memory he had of them. After that, he was alone.

==========================================================

Luca grew up on the fringes of society, a wild thing skirting the edges of towns and villages, surviving on scraps and stolen goods. His sharp instincts had always been there, even as a boy—a wolf's nose for danger, a vampire's quick reflexes. But back then, he didn't think of them as anything unusual. To him, they were just survival tools.

He learned to hunt before he could read, stalking rabbits and other small game with a patience that belied his age. It wasn't about the thrill of the hunt—he hunted because he had to. Because hunger was a constant companion, gnawing at his belly and driving him forward.

At night, he slept in the ruins of old buildings, his back pressed against cold stone walls. The dark didn't scare him—not the way it scared other children. His wolf side loved the quiet of the night, the stillness broken only by the rustle of leaves or the distant howl of another predator.

But there were times when his hunger grew too strong, when small game wasn't enough. Those were the moments when his vampire side whispered to him, urging him to seek out the warmth of human blood. He didn't understand it then, only that his body ached for something he didn't know how to name.

The isolation that came with being different shaped Luca as he grew. He learned to rely on himself, to trust his instincts and avoid getting too close to anyone. People were unpredictable, dangerous. And even when they weren't, they had a way of noticing things—his golden eyes that gleamed too brightly in the dark, the way his wounds healed faster than they should, or the way his teeth looked sharper when he was angry.

But there were moments, fleeting and rare, when he longed for connection.

He remembered watching the children in the village square, their laughter echoing as they played games he didn't understand. For a moment, he would let himself imagine what it would be like to be one of them—carefree, part of something bigger than himself.

But then the moment would pass, and he would turn away, his claws digging into his palms as he reminded himself that he didn't belong there