[General POV]
In the middle of the night, a woman woke up to a strange noise coming from the lower floor of her house. Her first instinct was to ask her husband to check it out, but he wasn't home at the moment. Being a well-known lawyer, it wasn't unusual for him to spend nights away on work trips—he was often gone for days at a time.
With that in mind, and despite a lingering sense of unease, she got out of bed and went to investigate. Quietly, she made her way toward the source of the noise—the kitchen. She descended the stairs in silence, passed through the long hallways of her home, slipped through the back doors of the kitchen, and peered through the half-open door.
What she saw brought a wave of relief—it clearly wasn't a burglar or anything like that. Still, her heart skipped a beat, caught between a flash of anger and deep concern. It wasn't an intruder. It was her son.
There he was—her fourteen-year-old boy, a prodigy in nearly everything he touched, but with a dangerous addiction to adrenaline and fighting. He stood there, gripping a knife, seemingly about to start cutting into raw meat. From the look of it, he had gone hunting again. Alone. At night.
She knew he had a habit of sneaking out to hunt, especially at night, but she could never bring herself to accept it. It was just too dangerous—especially in the thick, shadowy forest full of unseen threats. Even knowing how capable he was, she was his mother, and that meant the fear of what could've gone wrong never left her mind. Daytime hunts were already risky. But nighttime? That was another level.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, her voice firm as she flung the door open with force. "You could've been hurt, or even killed out there in that forest! I've already told you—I don't want you doing this again." Her words were sharp, leaving no room for negotiation.
The boy looked up at her with those bright green eyes and a mischievous smile on his face and replied, "I know what I'm doing, Mom. I can take care of myself."
His words were meant to ease the tension, but instead, they only seemed to irritate her further. She swallowed hard before speaking again.
"I know you're strong, and it seems like you can take care of yourself," she said, trying to calm her voice before it rose any louder, "but I still worry about you. I don't want you getting hurt because of this." She paused for a moment, thinking, then added—though she already knew the chances of him keeping his word were slim—"Promise me you won't do this again. At least… not alone?"
He hesitated for a beat, then gave in to her concern.
"Okay. I promise. I won't do it alone again."
It was a simple exchange, but enough to ease her nerves—for now. But as she well knew, he was far too stubborn to let a promise like that hold him for long.
[Elizabeth's POV]
I look at my son in this situation and think: What am I supposed to do with him? I know he never keeps his promises. Ever since he was little, I knew he was different. He didn't cry like other babies. Not even like his brother, Edward. At first, it worried me deeply, but he always seemed healthy—maybe even too healthy.
As he grew, his intelligence only became more apparent. He was even more brilliant than Edward, and Edward's a genius himself. Our family's been truly blessed in that regard.
But once again, I find myself anxious about Bruce. He's obsessed with physical training and combat—truly addicted—and that terrifies me. There's a monstrous, bloody war raging across Europe, and I'm afraid he'll end up getting pulled into it. Things out there are getting worse by the day. And if our country gets involved, I fear for our safety.
It's already enough that Edward talks endlessly about wanting to go off to war and fight for the country—or rather, to kill and be killed like a fool. My father fought in the Indian War of 1890, and I volunteered in the Spanish-American War of 1899. All I can say is... those were some of the worst moments of my life. I know what war really is. There's no glory in it.
Thankfully, unlike Edward, Bruce has never shown any interest in joining the military. Even though he's a combat genius and completely enamored with the art of fighting, he seems to have no desire to serve. But even that doesn't put me at ease. He's so good at it… and if our country joins the war, they'll want someone like him. They'd parade him around as their golden boy, their perfect example to lure more young men into enlisting.
I look at my son—his posture sharp, his clothes already clean again, as if he hadn't just come back from a midnight hunt—and I say:
"I love you, son. And I want you to always be safe."
I walk over and pull him into a tight hug. He returns the embrace, and we stay like that for a few seconds. Then I tell him to take a shower and get some rest. It was already late.
[Main POV]
After getting an earful from my mom, I took the deer to be butchered and stored away—years of hunger and hardship had taught me never to waste food. Funny how this keeps happening, considering I've never been particularly good at following orders. Besides, I'm almost certain nothing bad will happen. Still, hunting at night in a world where vampires exist isn't exactly the smartest idea.
Maybe I really should stop these late-night hunts. I mean, I don't want to get killed by a vampire—or worse, become one. I've got nothing against them, but sparkling in the sun? Definitely not my thing. And that ghostly pale skin? No, thank you.
Truth is, I've never liked the idea of becoming a vampire. I'm happy with the life I've got. I can take care of myself if I need to. As I thought about all this, I went ahead and prepared the venison for human consumption—real meat, the kind vampires can't enjoy. The thought made me smirk.
After I finished, I took a shower, just like my mom told me to, and headed to my room. But before going to sleep, I did a bit of meditation. I focused on my body and tried to relax—it's something my training drilled into me: control over body and mind. A strong mind makes a strong body. As I meditated in silence, the exhaustion from the hunt began to settle in. My limbs grew heavy, and slowly, I let myself drift into sleep.
[General POV]
Every day of the week, without fail, precisely at 5:00 a.m., a young man awakens with an almost instinctive precision. His green eyes—bright as emeralds touched by morning dew—open calmly and deliberately, as if his body had been trained to rise at that exact moment. No alarm. No sound. Just discipline.
Without hesitation, he gets out of bed—a solid, dark-wood frame with neatly made sheets in rich, dark tones—and walks to the marble bathroom, where hot water begins to stream over his body, wrapping him in a gentle mist that awakens muscles and sharpens senses.
His physique is a testament to years of dedication: defined muscles beneath lightly bronzed skin, broad shoulders, sculpted abs, and arms firm as if carved from stone. His black hair, slightly wavy, falls messily across his forehead, a wild contrast to the calm intensity of his gaze.
Wearing a fitted knit T-shirt and silk shorts, he steps out of the mansion in complete silence, feeling the crisp morning air brush against his face—a subtle reminder that his routine awaits. The sky still holds onto traces of night, painted in soft blues as the last stars begin to fade.
Thus begins his daily ritual.
He starts running at a steady pace, his sneakers pounding the garden paths with a rhythm that's both purposeful and unyielding. The mansion, nestled within tall trees and surrounded by ivy-covered walls and carefully crafted trails, becomes his training ground. But he doesn't just run—he moves with the environment. He leaps over stone benches with feline agility, scales short walls with ease, slides down railings, and weaves through structures like the world itself is his personal obstacle course.
For ten kilometers, his body flows like a living shadow—fast, efficient, nearly poetic. Sweat beads on his skin, catching the first shy rays of morning light.
At exactly 5:45 a.m., he finishes his run and heads to the back of the mansion, where a wooden deck serves as his outdoor gym. There, he begins his intense routine: 100 push-ups, each one flawless—back straight, breathing steady—followed by 100 squats, his posture aligned, eyes locked on the horizon. Every movement carries the calm of someone who no longer fights effort but embraces it as part of who he is.
At 6:00 a.m. sharp, he walks to the estate's dojo—a wooden structure inspired by traditional Japanese architecture, surrounded by ritual stones and bamboo groves. Upon entering, he bows briefly to the tatami mat. What follows is the core of his discipline: martial arts training.
He shifts between the explosive force of boxing, the disciplined precision of karate, and the fluid, strategic grace of kung fu. His strikes tear through the air with a blend of power and elegance. Kicks, dodges, and stances flow like a river—firm, measured, deadly. His body, now drenched in sweat, moves like a perfectly tuned machine, built to endure, to strike, to defend.
There, in that quiet space where the world feels far away, he is more than just a teenager training. He is a warrior in the making. He doesn't fight out of vanity. He doesn't train because someone told him to. He does it because he must. Because something deep inside demands it.
He finishes every session at exactly 8:00 a.m., soaked in sweat. He sits for a few minutes, then heads for another shower before joining his family for breakfast.
As he arrives at the grand dining table, he sees two people already seated: a woman with striking copper-golden hair and green eyes, and a boy who looks exactly like him—only a bit smaller, around 5'6", with a much slimmer build. Though they look like twins, one seems about 14, while the other appears to be a young man of at least 16—a surreal difference.
The young man takes his seat and greets them both:
"Morning, Mom! How'd you sleep? And you, little bro?"
He says it with a wide grin, clearly teasing them both. The woman catches the tone in his voice and prepares to respond, but the younger boy jumps in first, visibly irritated:
"Bruce! How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me 'little bro'? I'm only a few minutes younger than you! It's not like you're years older!"
The boy's words confirm what's already implied: they are, in fact, twins—though the contrast between them couldn't be more obvious.
The woman watches the familiar scene unfold, a small smile tugging at her lips, but it fades quickly. Her expression turns serious again. She remembers what her son had done the night before—and the danger it carried. Her eyes harden as she says:
"Bruce, we need to have a serious talk…"
To be continued…
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[A/N] If you've read this far, thank you! And since I'm terrible at handling compliments, please, insult me instead!