Chapter Text
“A hunter never hesitates. One second too long, and you’re dead.”
Her father’s words still echoed through Victoria’s skull as the stake finally left her throat.
Instead of candles and cake, gifts, friends, or even just a card, Victoria lay sprawled on the cold training room floor, every inch of her body throbbing. Freshly fourteen, and already starting to regret the choice she’d made.
See, Victoria knew what she was getting into. Being a Chase wasn’t just about money, power, or the perfect name printed in glossy magazines. The Chase family carried secrets deeper than their wine cellars and vaults.
Hunting. Not deer, not foxes. Vampires.
“You need to be faster than them,” her father said, his voice flat as he tucked the stake back into his belt. “That’s enough for today.”
And with that, he turned and left the room without even a glance back.
Victoria watched the heavy door swing shut, the click of the lock echoing in the cavernous space. The silence afterward was louder than his footsteps.
He doesn’t care, she thought bitterly. He’s never cared.
She tried to push herself up, but pain flared in her ribs and arms, forcing her back down with a soft gasp.
“Victoria?”
The voice was soft as silk. Victoria turned her head, wincing, to see Iris, the family maid, standing in the doorway. Her crisp uniform was slightly rumpled, hair escaping its tight bun as though she’d run the whole way.
“Oh dear…” Iris murmured, crossing the room quickly. She knelt beside Victoria, her gentle hands brushing sweaty hair off the girl’s forehead. “Can you stand?”
Victoria clenched her jaw and tried again—but her arms gave out, leaving her trembling. She shook her head silently.
Iris sighed and slid her arms under Victoria’s shoulders. “All right, then. Let’s get you out of here.”
Victoria let herself be carried, hating how small she felt, how weak. Later that evening, Victoria sat the long mahogany kitchen table, she stared at her two cats nio and sage chase each other as her fingers ghosting over the edges of the white tablecloth. She felt hollowed out, her bruises pulsing with each heartbeat.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Vic?” Iris finally said, stirring the contents of a pan. Her voice was gentle but laced with quiet fear.
Victoria blinked, as though returning from miles away. She opened her mouth to answer—and stopped.
Why did I want this?
She tried to remember the rush she’d felt when she first demanded to train. The righteous fire. The thrill of being part of something bigger. But the only thing she felt now was pain, like she’d cracked something inside her chest.
“I… I don’t know…” Victoria mumbled, her voice hoarse.
Iris didn’t press. She simply plated the food and set it in front of Victoria. Then she pulled a small white box from the fridge and placed it on the table.
“Happy birthday,” she said softly.
Victoria blinked at the strawberry shortcake inside, pink frosting curling around ripe berries like a little crown. She’d almost forgotten today was her birthday.
“This day was just about training,” she whispered. “About being the next ‘best Chase vampire hunter.’” She mimicked her father’s gruff tone, bitterness leaking through every syllable.
Iris sat down beside her, folding her flour-dusted hands. “You don’t have to follow the family name, Vic. You’re allowed to choose what you want to do. It’s your life, after all.”
Victoria stared at the cake, her throat tightening. She picked up the fork but set it back down, unable to taste anything.
“Hm. I’ll… think about it,” she murmured, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.
Iris reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Victoria’s ear. “I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”
Victoria glanced up. For the briefest second, her eyes shimmered with tears.
Then she drew in a sharp breath and forced her spine straight. “Thanks, Iris. But I have to be ready. I can’t… I can’t be weak.”
Iris frowned. “Being kind isn’t weakness, Vic. Your mother—”
Victoria jerked her gaze away, pain flashing across her features. “Don’t. Don’t talk about her.”
Silence fell over the kitchen, heavy as iron.
Outside, lightning flashed over Arcadia Bay, the storm raging as though echoing the turmoil in Victoria’s chest.
And though she took a tiny bite of cake to please Iris, it tasted of ashes in her mouth.
Victoria barely tasted the cake. Each forkful felt like chalk on her tongue, her body still aching from the afternoon’s beating.
Iris pretended not to notice. She simply kept busy at the sink, washing dishes while humming softly—a simple melody Victoria’s mother used to sing.
But even that was too much. Victoria pushed back her chair and stood up abruptly, wincing as bruises flared across her ribs.
“Vic…” Iris began gently.
“I’m fine,” Victoria snapped. Too sharp. The guilt came a heartbeat later. She lowered her eyes. “I’m… I’m just tired.”
Iris nodded sadly. “I know.”
Victoria lay awake long after the storm had faded, staring at the gilded molding of her bedroom ceiling.
Her body ached, but it was the silence that hurt more.
She rolled over, eyes landing on the small wooden stake resting on her nightstand. The one her father had left there like some twisted birthday gift.
Happy birthday, Victoria. You get fear, scars, and secrets.
She wondered, for a split second, what it might feel like to be normal. To blow out candles. To get lipstick or jewelry or concert tickets instead of bruises.
But then she remembered her brothers lifeless body. The way her father’s voice broke when he thought Victoria wasn’t listening.
No. She couldn’t be normal. Normal was how people got killed.
-
At seventeen, Victoria Chase wore armor. Not the leather-and-steel of a hunter—but designer clothes, a perfect smirk, and the sharpest tongue on campus.
She’d become untouchable. Or at least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think.
She sat in the Vortex Club lounge, bathed in neon glow, watching kids drink cheap champagne and dance. Her eyes flicked across the room constantly, assessing exits, shadows, and who was standing a little too still in the dark corners.
She still trained every morning before class, stakes hidden among her makeup brushes. Silver crosses tucked into her bras. Holy water disguised as fancy perfume.
Her father’s voice was always in her head:
A hunter never hesitates.