"Please don't kill me. Please!" Drake cried.
"Sir! Sir! Wake up!" A nurse tapped his shoulder urgently.
Drake jolted awake, drenched in sweat, the scream still echoing in his ears. He found himself in a white room, an IV drip attached to his hand. Beside him stood a nurse who had just checked on him.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"You're in the infirmary of the Shadowfang Order. You've been unconscious for five days," she replied.
Drake sat up, feeling a bit dizzy, and quickly removed the IV drip from his hand. He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, and grabbed the clothes nearby. After changing, he felt ready to leave.
"Sir, you can't get up yet. You need to rest some more," the nurse said, trying to stop him, but Drake didn't listen.
"I just can't keep lying here. I have to go."
The nurse grabbed his hand to stop him, but a knock at the door interrupted them. She opened it, and nodded as the man in a suit suddenly walked in.
"Sit down," the man in the suit said.
Drake silently obeyed, and the nurse quietly left the room.
"I'm Adrian Thorne, the President of the Shadowfang Order." He extended his hand to Drake for a handshake. Drake looked at him for a moment before accepting his hand.
"Drake Nightwalker," he replied. "What do you want from me?"
"We monitor all the survivor slayers to ensure they don't turn into vampires after our encounter five days ago. You're the last one to wake up."
"Then some of us did turn into them?" Drake asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Luckily, we found no signs of infection. Everyone appears normal," Adrian replied. "That's why you can't leave just yet. We still need to monitor you, just in case."
"Huh!" Drake sounded frustrated. "With all due respect sir, I don't want to stay here any longer. And I'm sure I'm not infected, or whatever you think."
"It's our protocol," Adrian said, his tone firm. "If you want to retain your badge as a vampire slayer, you have to follow our orders. You need to stay for one more day. My men will conduct a thorough examination before we let you go."
Drake felt speechless and realized he had no choice but to comply. A few minutes after President Thorne left the room, a doctor entered, holding a clipboard in one hand and wearing a stethoscope around his neck.
"Good morning, Mr. Nightwalker. I'm Dr. Monroe. I'm just here to run a quick check-up. You're feeling fine, yes?" the doctor asked.
Drake simply nodded in response.
"Alright then. Let's start with your pupils," he said.
He flicked a light across Drake's eyes. The pupils reacted—dilated slightly—showing signs of sensitivity to the brightness. Dr. Monroe narrowed his eyes. That was often a sign, but not definitive. He moved the light to the other side.
"Hold still," he instructed, watching carefully for any changes.
Drake's eyes flickered, but there was nothing unusual—no red glow, no unnatural shift in shape. Just… normal eyes.
The doctor checked his vital signs—everything appeared normal. Afterward, he asked a series of questions, but found nothing unusual.
"Let me know if you feel anything strange," Dr. Monroe said, scribbling a final note on his clipboard. "I'll inform the President of the results, and someone will let you know when it's safe for you to leave."
"Okay," Drake replied quietly.
Drake sat on his bed, waiting for further instructions. As he sat there, he tried to remember the day he was attacked, but the memories were elusive. He couldn't recall anything specific—only that someone had helped him before he lost consciousness. The person had moved too quickly for him to identify. He didn't mention this to the doctor, unsure of who had saved him. In his heart, he was just grateful to be alive and in one piece.
A knock on the door pulled him back to reality. When he opened it, the man on the other side informed him that he was free to leave. Drake grabbed his knife from the table and walked out.