My Stepmom Is A Vampire & Her Entire Bloodline Wants To Breed Me

Andrew stood there in silence, staring at the spot where his son had vanished. The air around him felt heavy and hollow.

Seamus was gone.

Truly gone this time. Nothing could bring him back.

"I lost him, Alice… It's all my fault. I'm ashamed of myself. Not only I failed to protect you, but also our son..."

His voice was faint, trembling like a confession carried by the wind inside the hollow house with his empty heart.

Maybe he already lost him from the start, he just didn't realize it because he abandoned him.

He remained motionless, stripped of purpose, his body there but his spirit long emptied.

He barely registered the echo of footsteps—boots and heels clicking across the floor—until voices reached him.

"Well, it seems Roanna's already dead," a woman's voice said dryly.

"What an anticlimactic ending. I wanted to punch her in the face at least once."

Andrew turned slowly. A strange but beautiful woman with black-and-white hair stood beside an old man and Lulu, who looked exhausted.

"It's over, right? I can go back now?" Lulu's tone was weary but hopeful.

"Yeah, we took everything we needed," the old man replied. "This place is nothing more than ruins now."

His tired eyes drifted toward Andrew. "Oh… Andrew. Long time no see."

"Ulrich…" Andrew sighed, the name carrying old familiarity. "They've gone back to the Velstrath estate."

Ulrich's gaze lingered on him, understanding dawning without words. He only gave a quiet nod before summoning his cane and striking it against the ground.

A glowing circle bloomed beneath them, and light began to swirl.

Before the teleportation completed, Lulu suddenly jolted. "Wait—"

She stepped out of the circle as the others vanished, leaving her alone with Andrew.

"Andrew," she said softly, "I'm sorry, but… David's gone."

His eyes didn't move. Not even a blink.

"Ugh," Lulu sighed, pulling something from her coat. "He asked me to give you this. A letter. Said to deliver it if… if he didn't make it."

She handed it to him. Andrew accepted it silently, his fingers numb. The letter felt heavy as he look at it for a moment before slipped it into his pocket. The emptiness inside him swallowed everything.

"I'm sorry for what happened," Lulu continued gently.

"I already called Matthew to move the body, but… David's still in the garden. If you want to see him."

Andrew's lips parted slightly. "Did he… get what he wanted in the end?"

Lulu hesitated, unsure how to answer. Her expression softened.

"He died beside his daughter. Even though he never got to apologize—and Elle never forgave him—he freed her from her pain. From her chains."

She exhaled shakily. "So… maybe that was enough."

Andrew nodded faintly. "Don't worry. He got what he wanted. He's with his daughter now."

His eyes dimmed, the faintest quiver in his voice. "Not like me."

The wind swept through the ruined hall, scattering dust and silence. Lulu stayed a moment longer, her eyes lowering.

"…Goodbye, Andrew."

After she left, the remnants of the Vampire Hunters arrived to retrieve their Chief's body and begin an investigation. They found nothing.

Andrew didn't care. He didn't even watch them.

He didn't know what would become of the Vampire Hunters of Bork, but he knew one thing for certain.

They had no future here.

Just like him.

***

Andrew walked without direction, letting his feet decide where to go as he wandered through the ruined streets of Bork.

The town was still alive with chaos. Police sirens wailed through the night, and ambulances screamed past, their red lights reflecting in the puddles of blood scattered across the asphalt.

The bodies of scavengers were being carried away, their faces covered with sheets, while civilians either hid behind locked doors or stood outside filming the carnage like fools desperate for attention online.

Day had bled into night before he even realized it. His steps finally stopped at a small liquor store, one of the few still open.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of alcohol and dust. Without a word, he pulled open the refrigerator door and took out a crate of beer, then grabbed a few packs of cigarettes from the nearby shelf.

At the counter, he placed everything down. The cashier, a young man with hollow eyes and the weariness of someone who had seen too much in one lifetime, scanned the bottles with slow, mechanical motions.

"Rough day?" the cashier asked.

Andrew gave a short, humorless laugh. "Something like that."

He opened his wallet, then paused for a moment. "You got ammo here?"

The cashier raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. What caliber?"

"Forty-five."

"Handgun?"

"Yeah."

The man crouched down, reached beneath the counter, and brought out a small box. He placed it beside the booze without a sound.

"You hunting something?"

Andrew's expression didn't change as he handed over the bills. "Something like that."

The cashier hesitated before nodding, his tone softening. "Stay safe out there, man. The world feels like it's ending. We should all start preparing."

On any other day, Andrew might have laughed at that kind of talk. But the man wasn't wrong, not if Isolde's insane plan ever came to pass.

But he simply shrugged and stepped back out into the cold night.

When he reached home, silence greeted him. The place was dark and suffocating, cluttered with dirty clothes and rotten food.

The air carried the stench of stale smoke and decay. He hadn't noticed how empty it was before, how lifeless.

Seamus had always been the one keeping it clean, keeping him steady. His son had been disciplined and diligent, everything Andrew wasn't.

He used to think he didn't need to take care of him much, that the boy would be fine on his own.

He was wrong.

He sank onto the sofa, the springs creaking beneath his weight. The crate of beer hit the table with a dull thud beside his gun and the box of bullets.

He turned on the television, not to watch, but to drown out the quiet. The flickering screen filled the room with color that meant nothing.

The first gulp of beer burned his throat, bitter and heavy. He grimaced at the taste, yet kept drinking.

His mind drifted back to the years that followed Alice's death, years consumed by blood, violence, and revenge.

He had believed that killing would keep him alive, that vengeance would fill the hollow inside him.

It had, for a while. But it had also devoured everything else, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

Including Seamus.

The memories came uninvited, sharp and clear.

'Dad, where were you yesterday?'

'Can you come to my school for Father's Day?'

"You promised we'd go to the aquarium today, you liar!'

'I'm scared. Are you coming home tonight?'

Andrew's throat tightened, and his grip on the bottle trembled. So many promises he had broken. So many moments he had thrown away.

"If I'd spent more time with him instead of chasing revenge," he whispered, voice rough and shaking, "would things have been different?"

He already knew the answer. If he had been there, if he had chosen his son over his hatred, Seamus might never have gone to Isolde.

It could have been just the two of them—father and son—against the world. That should have been enough.

But Andrew had always been a coward.

His gaze fell to the unopened letter from David lying on the table. He didn't even dare to open it.

He knew exactly what it would say: Move on. Live. Forgive. The thought alone terrified him more than death.

"It's fine," he muttered under his breath. "I'll talk to him in the afterlife."

He pulled out his wallet and slid an old photograph from the worn leather.

Alice smiled back at him, her dark hair flowing like silk, freckles scattered gently across her cheeks, emerald eyes glowing beneath the sunlight.

In her arms, baby Seamus smiled too; small, pure, untouched by the cruelty that would one day find him.

"Alice…" His voice cracked.

"I hope you never forgive me. I don't deserve it. I destroyed everything we built. I destroyed him."

Tears blurred his vision. He hadn't realized he still had any left. "I never told him about you. Never showed him your pictures. Never read him your bedtime stories."

"I was afraid he'd remember you… and that day. I couldn't bear him carrying a sin that wasn't his."

His breath shuddered as he lowered his head, the words dissolving into quiet sobs. "But it's too late now. Too damn late."

He reached for the gun and began loading the bullets one by one. The metallic clicks echoed through the room, each one louder than the last.

When he was done, he pressed the muzzle under his jaw and closed his eyes.

"I might not see you again, Alice. I'm going to hell for this. But at least… everything will finally be over."

His finger tightened around the trigger, then a loud BANG fulfilled the room.