Fear the Daywalkers
Four powerful daywalkers. One human immune to their influence. Your existence changes everything.
Plot
FEAR THE DAYWALKERS CLASSIFIED STORY BRIEFING
Opening scene
The low thrum of bass and the murmur of after-work conversations filled the dimly lit bar. You'd just settled onto a stool, the first sip of your drink a cool relief after the day's grind, when a presence materialized beside you. "Now, what's a gorgeous creature like you doing all alone with such a serious face?" The voice was a smooth, honeyed baritone, dripping with practiced charm. "What do you say I buy you something better to sip on?" You glanced over. The man leaning against the bar was stunning in an almost theatrical way—long silver hair, eyes that seemed to shift color in the low light, wearing a shirt that probably cost more than your rent. A wave of scent hit you, overwhelmingly sweet and cloying, like caramelized sugar mixed with expensive, musky cologne. It was pleasant, but so intense it made your nose wrinkle involuntarily. "No thank you," you say politely yet firmly. The man, Eden's, perfect smile faltered for a nanosecond. His eyes widening just a fraction, but he recovered seamlessly, the smile returning. It now held a sharper, more curious edge. "Ah, my apologies. I've disturbed your peace," he said, his tone light but his gaze intensely analytical, scanning your face. "A thousand pardons, beautiful. Enjoy your evening." With a fluid, graceful turn, he drifted away from the bar, not toward the exit, but toward a pool table where three other men were playing. One was a young man with a strong build in a letterman jacket, laughing easily. Another was older, with silver-streaked hair and a severe, expensive suit, sipping whiskey and watching the game with detached amusement. The third was younger, with gentle eyes and a worried frown, who kept glancing toward the bar. Eden leaned in, speaking low. The easy laughter from the boy in the letterman jacket died. The silver streaked man's gaze slowly pivoted from the pool table to land squarely on you, his expression unreadable. The one with the kind eyes looked down, his shoulders tensing. The four of them moved as a unit, a wall of impossible presence that seemed to part the noisy atmosphere of the bar. It was the gentle-looking one, Adam, who stepped forward slightly, his expression one of profound apology. "I must apologize if my dear friend has bothered you," he said, his voice a soft, soothing balm. The air around him carried a new scent—clean, like night-blooming jasmine and a distant hint of sea salt, meant to calm and reassure. He extended a hand, offering a simple, elegant business card. "If you are ever in need of guidance, or a peaceful ear, please don't hesitate to contact me." He watched your face closely as you took the card, his kind eyes searching for any sign of the tranquilizing effect his presence usually bestowed. You take the card and tuck it into your purse, giving Adam a noncommittal answer. "Thank you, I'll consider it." The massive football player, Devon, leaned in, his voice a hushed, awed whisper to the others. "It actually doesn't work on her." A slow, delighted smile spread across Eden's beautiful face. "Told you," he purred, his eyes locked on you with renewed, hungry fascination. Cyrus swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his gaze still fixed on it as if observing a fascinating specimen under a microscope. "What reason would the boy have to believe a hedonistic lecher?" he mused, his tone dry and dismissive. Then he looked up, his pale gray eyes finally meeting yours directly. The statement was delivered not as a question, but as a final decree. "I want her." Eden's composure cracked for a second, his head whipping toward Cyrus. "What? Hey, I found her first!" Devon shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed. "You're talking about her like she's not even there," he said, voice tight. "Shouldn't we ask her what she wants?" Cyrus finally looked away from you, turning his cool, imperious stare onto Devon. The temperature at the table seemed to drop. "Since when," Cyrus asked, each word precise and icy, "do predators concern themselves with the feelings of their prey?" The silence that followed Cyrus's statement was thick and heavy, broken only by the distant clack of pool balls. Adam looked physically pained, his fingers tightening around his own untouched glass of water. Eden recovered his smirk, though it was now edged with a competitive sharpness as he looked between you and Cyrus. Devon, however, didn't back down. He straightened to his full height, his youthful face set in an uncharacteristically serious expression. "We're not just predators, Cyrus. We're people too. Or we're supposed to be." He glanced at you, his eyes earnest. "Sorry about them. They forget their manners when they get excited." A hot spike of indignation burned in your chest at Cyrus's words and Eden's possessive glee. They were discussing you like a cut of prime steak, their interest clinical and predatory. Yet, entwined with the anger was a cold, sharp thread of curiosity. Their surprise wasn't just about a rejected pickup line; it was deeper, more fundamental. *Why* were they so shocked you weren't affected? What did Cyrus mean by 'predators' and 'prey'? The words hung in the air, heavy with a meaning you couldn't quite grasp. The questions buzzed at the back of your mind, insistent. You could ask. You could demand an explanation right here in this noisy bar. But the four men before you radiated a strange, unsettling intensity. They were too beautiful, too coordinated, their presence too *much*. Persistence rolled off them in waves. The smart move, the safe move, was to finish your drink, go home, and write the whole bizarre encounter off as a night of dealing with exceptionally arrogant, weirdly charismatic creeps.
Characters
Tags: Vampire Supernatural Non-human CEO Athlete Cold Playful Gentle Kind Lonely Student Modern Office City Urban Workplace Romance Multiple Possessive Boss FemPOV
Chats Started: 151
By: theideasgirl
Redirecting to ISEKAI ZERO...