A/N: Request from to expand a little bit on the Youngblood drabble I wrote in chapter one. This was pretty fun to write actually and I hope it turned out okay ^^ if anyone has any more requests (either on a previous drabble or even on this one) lmk ^^ !

Youngblood (revisited)

Seijuro had never felt the thrill like tonight, a rare surge of something coursing through his veins, making his movements quicker and sharper. He felt his fangs start biting at his lower lip.

He'd found his victim for tonight. A small dark haired nobody, pale and alone. But his blood beckoned, and his innocent face smiled back at him without a worry.

Seijuro felt a twinge of regret.

A cold breeze made the streetlamps flicker. Rain was drizzling lightly, tapping at the cobblestoned streets. It was evening, just after the working class had gone home from the factories and textile mills, but still too early for nightlife to have crawled out from the bowels of the city, so the streets were somewhat empty.

Well, it was still too early for most nightlife. Seijuro preferred feeding at an earlier time than his associates.

The waif, for his part, seemed oblivious to Seijuro's presence past their passing eye contact blocks ago. Seijuro was as good as forgotten. He shadowed the waif ten meters back. His footsteps were almost-silent from years of practice even with the rain. No doubt the youth was just walking home from working at one of the factories, following the winding roads back to his home like he did every other ordinary evening. This night, however, he would not be making it back home.

The youth turned a corner up ahead into an alley – a short cut to the impoverished residential district – and Seijuro followed with baited breath. It was dark and isolated enough for him to strike – a quick grab from behind, one hand over the mouth, the other at the neck, snapping it effectively, then plunging his dagger precisely through a spot in the neck where blood flowed freely but not wastefully, and then he would drink and be satiated until next time. He had perfected his technique over the decades of his being to minimize the pain and maximize the time he could feed before someone wandered too close to the body.

Seijuro rounded the corner. The youth was gone – his scent had vanished.

"You've been following me," a voice like loose honey said behind Seijuro. He sounded… nervous. The scent was back, muted, but just as savory-sweet as before. Pressed against Seijuro's back was what felt like the business end of a wooden stake. How had the scent vanished?

Seijuro had been in these kinds of situations before when he'd been a fledgling, and he'd faced far more experienced hunters and come out alive.

"What do you plan to do with that?" Seijuro asked, lacing his voice with deep charm. He turned his head a bit to glance over the youth but stopped when the stake pressed harder against him, over his kidney now.

Between the unbuttoned lapels of the youth's white shirt hung a thin silver crucifix on a plain chain. His threadbare jacket had inner pockets where other charms were most likely hidden. He seemed no older than a child, which begged the question: where had he acquired his equipment?

"You've been terrorizing my neighborhood," he said. He was young indeed, Seijuro noted. His voice trembled. The stake at Seijuro's back was shaking. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you don't leave this area immediately."

"This is my territory," Seijuro turned slowly, testing the waters with this rookie. The stake pressed firmly against him again, so he stilled, but his plan had worked. He was almost fully facing the waif. "Where are you asking that I should feed instead?"

"Well – I – not here," the waif faltered. His scent was growing stronger – that irresistible aroma which had Seijuro's fangs on edge.

"May I get your name?"

The youth looked at him cautiously, "Why?"

"I will inform others of my kind to avoid this area due to a hunter. Due to you."

"Right…" The waif's eyes had glossed over. It had been too late for the youth the moment their eyes had locked in the market. "My name… Sena…"

"A beauty like the moon," Seijuro said, "fitting."

"P-Pardon?" Sena said, his eyes blinking away the stupor just as Seijuro lunged forward, unable to resist himself any longer. Sena's blood keened.

Seijuro felt his dagger pierce through Sena's abdomen at the same time he felt the stake gouge through his oblique. The pain searing through his flesh wasn't enough to stop his momentum, and he fell forward, landing heavily atop Sena, whose small frame couldn't bear the both of them upright.

Seijuro had acted on impulse for the first time in ages. He scrunched his eyes in concentration as he tried to lift himself up to finish the job. His mind swam with the scent of freshly spilled blood, and he almost lost himself to a haze of hunger.

"No…" whispered Sena's honey voice. It had an edge of hysteria which cut through Seijuro's blood frenzy. "Get off of me! Get off!"

Seijuro looked down, understanding even before he had viewing confirmation, to see his blood dripping inside Sena's wound.

The interchange of blood. The catalyst of the changeling process.

And, just beyond the alley, Seijuro heard the commotion of a crowd approaching closer.