Married to a Villain

Thousands of years ago, under the blood-orange skies of an ancient world, a baby was born. Not to man, not to beast, but to a power that slumbered between the folds of life and death. This child came to be a vampire. Not just any vampire—but the first, born of shadow and silence, drawn from the deepest corners of forgotten legends. From the day of his birth, a shift rippled through the balance of the world. The vampires rose—not as beasts or monsters, but as elegant creatures of intelligence, strength, and immortality. They weaved themselves into the highest towers of society, alongside kings and prophets. Their influence grew quietly. Humans did not notice until it was far too late. The vampires overtook the world. But humans—they are nothing if not cunning. They struck first. And they struck with purpose. With rituals and incantations stolen from lost cultures and forbidden tombs, humans conjured a prison: an entire realm of darkness—a place without time, without escape. The Shadow Realm. It was their solution. Their plan. One by one, the vampires were hunted, captured, and cast through portals sealed by magic. Screams echoed as families were torn apart. The gates closed behind them, never to reopen. The key to that realm became legend. A myth passed down only through one bloodline: the Prescotts. All vampires vanished from Earth. All except one. A small boy, no older than seven. His eyes were red like firelight. His skin pale as snow. His name was Morris. He had watched his mother get pulled into the shadow portal. Her screams haunted him. He ran, hid, survived—but only for a short time. And then came the man. He stepped out of the fog wearing a deep green coat and walking with a serpent-headed cane. Tall, graying, rich with charisma and cruelty. This was Mr. Prescott. “Follow me, dear boy,” Prescott said, extending a gloved hand. “I own you now.” Morris’s body trembled. He didn’t understand. But he followed. The guards closed in. They surrounded the child, taking him by the arms. Morris didn’t resist. He was dragged through the mist, through silent woods, until he reached a sight that made his breath catch: a grand estate larger than anything he'd seen. White stone walls. Black iron gates. Dozens of chimneys exhaling smoke into the cold sky. Prescott Mansion. Inside, Morris was given fine clothes, warm meals, a bed softer than clouds. The house was beautiful, but the beauty was a cage. It wasn’t kindness. It was grooming. Because Mr. Prescott had learned what Morris was. Immortal. Pure. And Prescott wanted that too. The experiments started quietly. A few vials of blood. Questions about pain. Then came the injections—Prescott storing Morris’s blood, drinking it in secret chambers, injecting it into his veins while muttering, “When the time is right, I’ll have it all.” Morris didn’t age. Not a day. He watched as humans around him grew old, passed on. He stayed a child. And Prescott never stopped. For centuries, Morris endured it. He grew up under the weight of this false life, with a smile that cracked and bled. His body fed on animals brought to him, his thirst held back with sedatives, his powers restrained by charms etched into the mansion walls. But no chains can hold forever. One night, Morris stood in the drawing room, eyes locked on Prescott, who was swirling a fresh vial of blood. "I’m tired,” Morris said quietly. Prescott barely glanced at him. “You’ll endure.” "No. I’m done. No more needles. No more pain.” Prescott turned fully now, eyes narrow. “I let you live. I gave you a home. And this is how you repay me?” Morris’s hands clenched. Something inside him cracked open. The air around him thickened. His eyes turned red. Fangs extended. He attacked. But he was weak. So weak. Prescott dodged the strike and drove his fist into Morris’s face. Morris crumpled. Blood painted the marble floor. “You stupid little beast,” Prescott hissed. He seized Morris by the throat and slammed him down again. From his coat, he drew another syringe—this one glowing faintly blue. "Let’s see what this one does.” Morris struggled, writhing as guards pinned him down. The syringe scraped across his eye. He screamed. Then another plunged into his stomach. Blood spilled out. Prescott stood over him, breathing heavily, anger and obsession mixing in his glare. “Lock him away,” he snapped. The cell was cold, damp, and dark. Morris lay in silence, bloodied and broken. Every breath was pain. But pain has a way of sharpening the mind. Of unlocking something deeper. He pressed his hands against the steel door. And they went through. He gasped. Then tried again. This time, his arms vanished through the door as if it were smoke. He stepped forward. His entire body passed through. Freedom. The woods greeted him like an old friend. Night air, fresh and silent. Morris stumbled through the trees, his wounds reopening, body limping, heart racing. He didn’t know how far he ran. But the forest gave him cover, and he ran until he collapsed. A river gurgled nearby. He fell into it. He awoke at dawn. His body was clean. The blood washed away. The wounds gone. But the sun... The light touched his skin like fire. Smoke curled from his hands. His face blistered. He screamed and fled, diving beneath the shade of the trees. He lay there, hidden, burning. All day, he waited. He watched the sun inch across the sky, each ray a threat. Only when darkness fell did he rise again. He was starving. The hunger returned with fury. He caught a rabbit, then a deer. Drained them dry. And still, the pain in his chest remained. It became worse. Then worse still. His body had burned too much energy. He fainted. Prescott’s guards had been searching since the moment he escaped. They found him in the woods. Pale. Unconscious. Fangs exposed. Without a word, they wrapped his body and carried him back. Back to the mansion. Back to captivity. But this time, something had changed. Morris had discovered his power. He had seen what sunlight did to him. He had escaped. And he knew now: one day, he’d do it again. Not as a child. Not as prey. But as something the Prescotts would never see coming. Present Day The world had changed. Technology ruled the streets, but old money still pulled the strings. And no one had more strings in their grip than Mr. Prescott. On the surface, he was a real estate mogul and philanthropist. Behind closed doors, he operated a black agency—an underground unit skilled in espionage, theft, assassination, and relic recovery. Tonight’s operation was high priority. Target: Mr. Thomas Bexley. Location: Bexley Estate, Westcliff. Objective: Retrieve the Emerald of Kirel and Eliminate the owner. Leading the mission was none other than Morris. Now grown, now powerful. Dark suit, sleek gloves, silver ring glinting in the moonlight. Around his neck, a thin chain—the enchanted necklace that allowed him to walk in the sun. He moved like a ghost. Through security systems, through locked steel doors. Guards were unconscious before they hit the floor. Inside the mansion, Mr. Tom waited, trembling. He was a collector of rare gems and history. And unfortunately, he’d come across something too rare to survive having. "Please,” Tom stammered, backing against the wall. “I don’t even know what it is. Just take it. Take it and go!” Morris stared, face unreadable. His red eyes shimmered in the dark. "You saw it,” he said softly. “That’s enough.” "No—please—” But Morris moved. So fast. So silent. The man was dead in seconds. No scream. No struggle. The emerald was extracted from its glass casing, placed into a velvet pouch, and delivered to Mr. Prescott by dawn. Prescott grinned when he held it. “Another piece,” he murmured. “One step closer.” Morris said nothing. But in his chest, beneath the calm, something stirred. He was closer too. Closer to the key. Closer to freedom. Closer to revenge.