Wisconsin winter is cold enough to freeze the gates of Hell, but when you've lived there long enough, you grow used to it. Vlad Masters had lived there long enough to greet the cold with open arms and unzipped jackets. His manor wasn't any warmer compared to the cold, or as comforting. The one precaution he took as he laid out in the snow was wearing gloves. He hated the thought of his hands freezing and was constantly worried something would happen to them whilst outside. When he was a young boy, he would constantly wash his hands until they were red and bruised, even making them bleed. His hands must always be clean.
Vlad grew up alone with no siblings and a mother who wouldn't even glance his way unless it was to correct him. Wash your hands, must wash your hands. They are precious. He began to find solace in the smallest things, such as the head pats he would receive from his now long dead father. Satisfied with his short silver hair tousled, he could go to bed without any worries. After his father died, his mother begged him to learn the piano just as his father had. But before he could touch those keys, he would have to vigorously scrub his hands for ten minutes straight. He couldn't taint the precious keys his father played before him. Which is where is hand problem began.
The wind began to pick up as the sky darkened. Vlad picked himself up from off the ground and began to make the long walk back to his door. On his way there however, his eyes got caught on a shadow flitting by. He turned to catch a glimpse of what ran by, and his gaze landed on a small man shaking from the cold. His clothes were torn and hanging off of him in rags, his ribs easily seen through the shoddy shirt he wore. The boy's hair was tangled and dirty and his lips were tinted blue. But the thing he noticed more than anything was those hands. They shook badly and they gripped those pale arms tight, trying to draw any warmth to him. The fingers were perfectly shaped, long and slender. They poked out from gloves with holes where the fingers should be. He couldn't take his eyes off of them. Vlad glanced at his own gloves and decided then and there what to do.
He took them off, as well as his jacket, and threw them onto the ground near the freezing man. The man's eyes registered on the coat, and Vlad quickly hurried to his front door. He hoped the poor sod would accept his offering of momentary warmth.