Roman
Roman entered the plush mirrored elevator and hit the button for penthouse. With a jolt the elevator began to rise smoothly. He checked his watch, almost midnight. As the metal box rose he checked himself in the mirror.
He pulled his tie loose around his neck. His shirt was untucked and the top two buttons were undone, his jacket had vanished somewhere in the night. His lips were cracked and his skin was looking more waxed and pale than ever. But what scared him, right into the marrow of his bones, was the hunger that lingered in his shadowed eyes. It had been weeks since he fed and he knew it. He closed his eyes and thought about why he had to be here. Why this was necessary.
After the events of the last few weeks Roman knew it was time to cut ties. He stood down as C.E.O of Godfrey Industries, retaining enough shares to ensure he'd never have to work again, packed up the glass prison that was his house, and turned his back of the people and memories of Hemlock Grove.
At Roman's request, Shelly had taken Nadia to his chalet in the Alps to raise her there. It had been an emotional goodbye, Roman would miss his sister greatly, his daughter even more so. But he knew deep down that he was not fit to be a parent. Shelly, however, was one of the most loving people Roman had ever met. He knew she would raise Nadia well. These, two of his most beloved, were better off without him, Roman understood that all he brought was death and destruction to those around him, and he thought the further away they were, the better off they were. The safer they were.
He turned the key into the penthouse door and pushed it open gently. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he walked to the bar and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. It had been a long night.
He'd gone to one of the classier nightclub's downtown. But found after an hour, the thundering hunger in his throat was too much to bear. He felt the pulse of the hundred or so clubbers, thrumming through their veins like trains down a track. Delicious trains that even now back in his apartment he was dreaming of ripping open and- he sighed, mentally shaking himself.
He'd spent the rest of the evening walking the streets, filling his lungs with as much air as possible. Being cooped up alone in his apartment was getting to him. He'd felt the same suffocating restrictions when his mother had imposed them years ago. Now, the restrictions were of his own making, for the safety of all New Yorkers.
Olivia, Roman was sure, was still skulking around in the shadows of Hemlock Grove, leeching off its inhabitants like the parasite she was. Roman tried not to think about what that made him. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, he thought bitterly downing his drink in one and pouring himself another.
He threw himself onto the leather couch that faced out towards the city below. People milled about even at the late hour. Roman hadn't thought the move through well enough, if Hemlock Grove was a packet of dry noodles on a warm night, then here, New York, was an all you can eat buffet of steaming food, wafting delicious scents into every pore of Roman's skin.
Where better to train his self-control than in a city teeming with destitute homeless and ignorant assholes. He scoffed at himself and took a sip of his drink. This was the same way he'd spent night after night since he'd arrive in the metropolis. Gazing out at the peasants and trying not to inflate his god-complex any further.
Then of course there was- Roman couldn't even think his name. He'd started thinking of him as just: The Gypsy. He found it easier not to think about him at all. The betrayal, hurt, and most importantly lust that came with thoughts of The Gypsy were too overwhelming for him to deal with.
Ice clinked in the bottom of his empty glass and he resigned himself to bed. He was half way across the living room when a misshapen hump smashed against the wall of windows. Outside, attached to a thick rope, a figure hung limply and unmoving. Roman strode across the lounge in two bounds. He pressed his face close to the glass. He saw his translucent reflection, the hunger from before replaced with pure perplexion.
The body turned slowly to reveal a face. It took Roman a minute to register what he was seeing, and by that time the face had revolved out of view. Confusion gave way to disgust, and underneath it, a ribbon of fear. Roman's heart thudded out of rhythm.
He sprinted to the roof. Perfect, Roman thought, taking the stairs four at a time. He was near dying of hunger and a bloodied man was hovering right in front of him like a hunk of meat dangled torturously above a tank of starving piranhas.
It wasn't just any ordinary body. Peter Rumancek could never be accused of being ordinary.