"Tsukiyo!"

Unfortunately, we don't have an eternity, because you're not a vampire. You're my wolf, and you were loyal to us until the very end. I'm sorry I neglected to thank you for that. I'll never forget when all of those emotions you kept locked inside finally rushed to the surface, and you howled my name at the moonless sky.

Did you know that I was thinking about you in the end?

"Yata-san!" Rikio was already tearing his sweater from his shoulders, dropping to his knees alongside the gut-wrenching sight of Neirah's limp body cradled in Misaki's protective embrace. The street was eerily empty that night save for those affected by the tragedy unfolding, but there was nothing quiet about Rikio's urgent address. "What the hell happened?!"

"D-do something, p-please," Misaki begged through a wash of helpless tears. His grip on the woman fading in his lap tightened like holding her tighter would somehow keep her spirit from leaving her body. "If we don't, s-s-she's not g-gonna make it."

"Idiots! Don't move her!" Saruhiko barked intolerantly. He disconnected his mobile, dropping it to his side as he reprimanded them for acting rashly, as all HOMRA clansmen trended to do. "You could end up making it a lot worse!"

"Wake up!" Misaki wailed. "Damn it, Neirah, just open your fucking eyes!"

But Neirah's eyes couldn't open, and even though her heart raced, the smile she felt in her heart to the wash of fond memories couldn't make it to her frosted lips. She was cold, but it wasn't nearly as daunting as it used to be. She supposed that was what it meant to be alive. It was just one of the many sensations that came with living, even as you welcomed death to your door. The taste of blood in her mouth was rancid and far from the sweet promises of the fantasy she shared with a friend who was brave enough to realize that things were perfect the way they were right from the start. In a way, she felt selfish for wanting more.

A shocked Saburōta kept his distance, wild and disbelieving eyes staring at Neirah's tawny flesh draining of caramel colour as they clamoured. Coloured lights and sirens were spilling into his senses from all directions, but all he could see was red, the red of the spilling life that, for the umpteenth time, he was too late to save.

'I'm sorry,' she thought miserably to the feeling of her warmth fading into the chilly evening around them. 'But I think I loved you.'

Missed opportunities, Bandō, baby.

Now, let's get back to our story.