The plane had landed hours before dawn, and by the time the sun rose above the tiled rooftops of Beijing, the couple had already settled into the modest apartment they had rented weeks in advance through an online agency. To anyone watching, they were just another pair of African expatriates, quiet, polite and curious about a new culture. Nothing about them hinted at the centuries they carried in their eyes, or the blood-soaked past that clung to them like an invisible shadow.
Gyu, now calling himself Leo, stood by the window as the city awoke. He had seen dawns in a thousand places. Over desert dunes where jackals cried, on riversides where kingdoms had risen and crumbled, in battlefields where his blades dripped red. But this sunrise felt different. Softer. Cleaner. It was the first time in a long while he had allowed himself to believe in peace.
Rishi, his eternal wife, now Leona, moved quietly through the small apartment. She laid their meager belongings in order with the elegance of a queen arranging a palace, though their home was nothing more than two small bedrooms, a kitchen, and a balcony overlooking the street. Her long dreadlocks, woven with strands of gold thread, fell over her shoulders as she hummed to herself.
"Do you think they will accept us?" she asked gently, breaking the silence. Her voice was low, like velvet on stone, yet threaded with something fragile.
Leo turned from the window. His eyes, dark as storm clouds, softened when they rested on her. "They will see what we show them. Nothing more. We are husband and wife, simple people seeking a new life. That is all."
Leona studied his face. She had known it in countless forms: painted with tribal marks, hidden beneath warrior helmets, reflected in the glimmer of torchlight across centuries. But here, in the golden light of morning, he looked almost… mortal. Almost like the man she had first loved before the beast's bite changed everything.
She smiled faintly. "Then let us be simple."
The neighborhood was a bustling mix of old and new. Narrow streets lined with shops selling steaming dumplings and herbal medicines were pressed against modern cafés with neon lights. Children played in the courtyards, their laughter echoing off the concrete walls. Elderly men and women gathered on wooden stools, sipping tea as if time itself bowed to them.
Leo and Leona made their first appearance that morning, dressed plainly. Leona wore a flowing white dress with a patterned scarf draped lightly over her shoulders. Leo dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, his tall, manly frame moving with a quiet grace that made passersby glance twice without knowing why.
They bought vegetables from a street vendor, bowing slightly in thanks after each purchase. The old woman at the stall beamed, delighted at their respectful manner. "You are new here?" she asked in Mandarin.
Leona, who had practiced phrases for months before their move, answered haltingly, her accent thick but charming: "Yes. We… come… new. From Africa."
The woman nodded enthusiastically, pressing an extra handful of garlic into Leona's basket. "Welcome, welcome."
By midday, the couple had walked the market streets, stopped to watch a group of children flying kites, and sat quietly in a teahouse. To anyone observing, they were simply tourists or perhaps newly settled residents. But beneath the calm surface, both were constantly aware: measuring heartbeats around them, counting footfalls, and listening to the faint whisper of blood pumping through veins.
For centuries, that sound had driven them into frenzy. Today, they ignored it, pretending to be what they wanted so desperately—human.
That evening, the apartment was filled with the smell of stir-fried vegetables and steamed rice. Leona cooked slowly, following the recipe she had scribbled into her notebook from a neighbor's instructions. She had always loved food—not only blood could sustain her, unlike the vampire myths whispered in foreign lands… or she could just be a different kind of vampire.
Leo sat at the table, watching her, sipping green tea. He remembered the last time she had smiled while cooking. It was in Timbuktu, four centuries earlier, when scholars still filled the streets and poets sang under the stars. Back then, their lives had already been burdened by whispers of their unnatural strength. They had fled once before. They were fleeing again now.
"This feels… almost normal," Leona said softly as she placed a bowl before him.
He picked up the chopsticks with careful precision. "Almost."
They ate in silence for a while. To their bodies, food was optional, but the act of eating together, of living as mortals, was what made the moment sacred.
After dinner, they stepped onto the balcony. The street below glowed with lanterns, bicycles clicking past, vendors still calling out late-night offers. Leo leaned on the railing, his sharp senses picking out details far away. Two men arguing three blocks down, the shuffle of mahjong tiles in a room across the street, the heartbeat of a cat perched on a nearby roof.
Leona slipped her hand into his. "Do you think we can live like this forever?" she asked.
Leo did not answer immediately. He had learned across centuries that nothing was forever. Not kingdoms, not peace, not even silence. But her hand in his was eternal, and so he gave her the only answer that mattered.
"We will try."
A week passed, and the couple became a quiet curiosity in the neighborhood. They greeted neighbors with soft nods, helped carry groceries for an old woman who lived on the first floor, and gave polite smiles to the shopkeepers who whispered about the tall African man and his beautiful enchanting wife.
One evening, their next-door neighbor, a middle-aged teacher named Mr. Huang, knocked on their door with his wife and teenage daughter.
"Welcome to the community," Mr. Huang said, offering a basket of fruits. "We hope you feel at home here."
Leona accepted the gift warmly. "Thank you. We are happy here."
The families sat together briefly. The Huangs asked about Africa, and Leo spun simple tales. Careful, sanitized versions of deserts and rivers, of markets and drums, omitting the wars and shadows. His deep voice carried weight, and the Huangs listened with admiration.
"You must come to dinner soon," Mrs. Huang insisted.
Leona smiled. "We would love to."
Having the Huangs around was a temptation, but lust was kept abbey. Leo and Leona couldn't wait for their visitors to leave already.
As the door closed behind their guests, the couple exchanged glances. They had lived beside countless humans across centuries, but rarely had they allowed themselves to be seen. Here, in this city, in this moment, they were trying something different.
For a while, it worked.