Leon slipped through a maze of alleys and side streets, oblivious to the violence that erupted behind him. His job was done for the night, and he was dangerously low on ammunition anyway. He skulked through the shadows until he reached the relative safety of a crowded street, then blended into the crowds. A few noticed his singed and charred clothes, and he received quite a lot of odd looks from passers-by glimpsing the bullet holes in his jacket, but thankfully nobody decided to stop him for a chat on the matter. No cops, either, thank the night; most of the local LEOs were about as threatening as a sack of potatoes, but any notice from officialdom could still make his life hell.<br/><br/>After almost a half hour of walking, Leon grew tired of beating the sidewalk and hailed a cab. One of the Whites pulled up and he slid inside, gave the driver his destination and leaned back in his seat, his eyes closed. He payed no attention as the cabbie started going on and on about the latest Jets game and what a shame it was about all the new illegals flooding into the country, simply nodding and grunting at the proper intervals. He could feel the wounds in his back stitching themselves closed, and the pain started to diminish. As usual, he hadn't even noticed how much it had hurt until it stopped. The Thirst was starting to build, though; he needed to get back to his haven quickly or the Beast might overtake him after all.<br/><br/>After a 15-minute eternity, the taxi pulled up in front of Leon's apartment building and he climbed out, tossing a couple 20s to the driver. The old doorman took note of Leon's condition and quickly turned, reaching into a small mini-fridge and offering him a small red bottle. Leon popped off the cap and guzzled it down right on the step. It was O+, thin and a little less than fresh, but it was enough to steady his shaking fingers.<br/><br/>"Ugh. Damn, I needed that. Thanks, Larry. You're a lifesaver, man." "Anytime, Mr. Brentwood. Rough night?" "Eh, not great. But I've had worse." Which was true. Leon tossed the empty bottle in a nearby trash bin and tapped Larry on the shoulder as he headed inside. Larry was a ghoul, and a servant to the building's owner. He looked about 70, but his real age was closer to 160. "Shall I expect any company tonight, sir?" Larry asked, surreptitiously fingering the .45 he kept tucked under his jacket. Leon shook his head with a grin as he pushed through the doors. "Sorry, Larry. Not tonight; you'll have to find some other way to pass the time." The old ghoul nodded, crestfallen, and returned to his post.<br/><br/>Larry had been working for his current master, Antoine Mereaux, for the last 90 years, and was constantly on the lookout for a chance to earn either a full Embrace, or the peaceful release of death. It had been so long, Leon didn't think even Larry knew which one he'd prefer anymore. He took an elevator to his pad on the 14th floor, sharing it with Mrs. Rubinski, an elderly Kine woman who lived on one of the floors above him. "Now what's a young man like you doing out at this hour of night, hmm? Gone to see one of those girlfriends of yours, I don't doubt?" She asked, teasing him as she always did about his nocturnal outings. "Why Mrs. Rubinski, I might ask you the same thing. A young woman your age oughtn't be out and about so late; hardly proper, is it? Another one of your gentleman callers, I take it?" Leon replied with a smile. He couldn't help laughing as the old woman blushed and giggled. "Mr. Brentwood, I declare you are an absolute card!" "I know, I know; someone should really deal with me...ah. My floor. Sleep well, Mrs. R." As the doors opened, Leon swept out into the hall with a flourish, waving goodbye to the old woman before the doors clicked shut with a soft *ding*.<br/><br/>Leon's apartment took up most of the 14th floor, and it was spacious enough to prove it. He snapped the deadbolt and the chain on the door, and immediately headed for the fridge. He pulled out a couple of blood packs and drained them into a cut crystal glass, tossed in a straw and slurped down his dinner. It was never as good as straight from the jugular, but food was food and he was in no mood to hunt tonight. He dumped the night's prize, the stained and torn ledger, onto a coffee table and swiped up the remote, settling in to channel surf for a while. Above him, crouched on the stairs as silent and still as a waiting snake, the eyes of a young girl in a dark leather vest watched him intently, a long, sheathed katana resting in her lap.