It was an unholy sound. The sound that should never be heard, that should never be made. The sound that made gods weep. The crying gasp, the first breath as one breaks the ocean's surface, torn from the abyss of darkness and emptiness. The first breath after the resurrection, the return of life to the remains not yet committed to the flames. And with it came new life, new sense, new touch.

But this was a bastardization of life. To the man, more of a curse than a blessing, but to the husk, to the reanimated, a negligible difference. A second chance.

She felt her back arch as her muscles flexed and contracted, as her lungs drew in that first breath, and she felt her torso slowly rise from the chair that supported her. She could see nothing but blackness as she rose, but as the seconds droned by in their passage, she began to feel the rush of power through every vein, every capillary, every cell of her body. Infected by this power, by this… this unholy electricity.

She opened her eyes slowly, reacquainting with herself, shuffling off the rigor of death muscle by muscle. As she sat upright, she remembered that she had legs, remembered that they needed to brace her as she stood.

And yet, as she awoke, there was a coldness in her, a freezing wind running through her alongside that electricity. As she sat there, on the edge of the chair, she felt the cold seep through her, clenching her stomach and making the hair on her arms stand on end. It was a terrible paralyzing feeling, a clammy sickness permeating her very being. It was a drive, a singular obsession, a desire, a want, a need.

But for what, she was uncertain.

What was she? How had she been brought back from the depths, from the precipice of death? She strained to remember what had happened before the darkness claimed her, and yet as hard as she tried, she couldn't. Nothing offered itself to her. She sat there, cold and craving, lost in doubt and philosophy, impossible possibilities.

Until she heard a voice, calling out through the fuzz of her surroundings. The first word these new ears heard, spoken in what she understood as pure and unadulterated delight. She recognized this word. It was her name, the name she was given all those years ago, a name which she felt had died with her, but a name that reminded her of the last semblance of life. She was both this name and not. Inhabiting the body that bore this name under its tongue, but a shadow of it, a corruption of it.

As she turned to face the source of the voice, she began to see a bit clearer, and when she locked eyes on the figure standing almost behind her, she felt a lurch in her stomach. She looked at him and she looked through him, seeing red, seeing pulsing, seeing flowing through his body, seeing the ichor that called to her, seeing the thing she had craved.

Oh, god.

This was it. She knew what she was.

The voice called again, its words resonating and ringing in her ears, loud and brash, but she did not cringe. She was driven by her own forces now, driven by the desire to loose the ichor from him, to open him, to drain him. The sustenance was too enticing to drive away.

As she stood under her own power for the first time, slowly drawing herself up to her full impressive height, she looked into the eyes of the man. They were matched, and in his eyes she saw desperation, fear, disbelief, excitement, joy, and a million other flashes of emotion that she couldn't name.

She stared at him, almost tantalizingly, studying his face with widened eyes as she began to advance, like a stalking predator locking eyes on prey that was far too foolish and far too close. Her steps were not shaky, for she was strong and she knew it. Drawing closer to him, every deliberate step trodden like the fall of a paw, like a panther, like a wolf. She gazed at him, cocking her head to one side like a curious animal, and she felt the pull of him, the pull of the veins crying to her, the arteries begging to be opened, the jugular which pulsed with fear right beneath the skin, but yet he did not move as she approached him.

She was right in front of him now, inches away from his confused and, rightfully, terrified face. As he breathed in shaky breaths, she felt the delicious temptation too much to bear, too much to stifle, and in one motion she locked her hands behind his neck and pulled him closer with unmatched desperation, hungrily pressing her lips against his. The kiss was unnecessary, she knew, but as she broke away from it, as she tasted residual drops of blood against her lips, she was overcome with it; the possibility of complete subjugation, the thought of thirst finally quenched. The fire in her gut began to burn brighter as the desire became all-consuming. The kiss came not from love, but from hunger.

The prey was too foolish to realize it was caught in the predator's jaws.

When she had first begun to stand, she had become aware of a second figure in the room, lurking in the shadows away from her. The impossible thought crossed her mind, that this second figure was somehow responsible for her resurrection. She didn't know how, she didn't want to think about how, but as she stood in front of her prey, she impulsively turned to face the other figure who was standing behind them and watching them, silent and stoic, locks of frazzled hair cascading down the sides of her face.

Words had yet to form in her mouth as speaking had seemed beyond her grasp. The first breath was the only new sign of life from her vocal cords, but now, as she felt the adrenaline race through her, as she felt the scarlet pinpricks on her lips, she felt confident enough to speak, and she spoke two words to the figure standing there:

"He's delicious."

The figure gave the slightest of nods, signaling that she was to continue unhindered. The fire raged inside her, and she turned back to look the man in the face, his eyes now only reflecting fear. In a smooth motion, she forcefully grabbed his upper arms and turned him, almost like a dance, and his eyes were terrified now, confused and terrified. She didn't release him, and in a moment of pure indulgence, looked down at him and sighed with pleasure and the expectation of what was to come. She brought a hand behind his neck again and applied pressure to make his knees buckle from under him, slowly dropping him to the floor, as she brought her lips to the crook of his neck and fell with him, feeling the razor-sharp fangs push their way over her teeth, tasting the sweat off his skin as she pierced his neck with a single bite. She felt the warm copper flood her mouth, dripping down her chin and off her lips as she let it flow into her mouth and swallowed it, feeling it run through her like lava, and for the first time she felt the cold vanish inside her, replaced by a brilliant warm glowing light.

She didn't hear him protest or scream, and she didn't hear the gurgling sound of blood leaking into his windpipe, because she was too distracted with how right this felt for her, how unbelievably filling his blood was. How she realized that this was her purpose. This was the price for resurrection, the price for new life. But this did not scare her, and in fact, it thrilled her. This is what she was, and she was falling more and more in love with it every second.

As she lay there on top of him, draining him, she opened her eyes and saw him, pale and bleeding, limp, like a ragdoll. She didn't even remember closing her eyes. But as she sat up, still straddling his waist, she looked up at the second figure who was speaking to that damn camera, and she felt Kirsch's blood drip off her chin and onto her shirt, and she felt her lips curl in a twisted smile.

And she closed her eyes again in total bliss.

She was full.

She was alive.