Sorry, I'm Just a Weak Little Vampire

The sharp smell of sulfur and preserved blood filled the Academy's alchemy lab.

Afternoon sunlight sliced through the wooden blinds, casting striped shadows across the metal workbenches. Dorian stood over a bubbling beaker, carefully adding drops of purple liquid into a blood fusion mixture.

Ronan, a tall combat-course vampire from an old family, leaned against the doorframe. He crossed his arms, watching Dorian work.

"I'm telling you, she's broken," Ronan said, frowning. "The Crimson Court must have tortured her. Nobody just loses their mind and acts like a clown for no reason."

Dorian didn't look up. He set his glass dropper down with a soft clink.

"You're blind, Ronan," Dorian said, his voice calm and analytical. "Her pureblood core is too dense. It isolates her. She's faking this pathetic persona to lower expectations. She's trying to blend in with the dirt."

Before Ronan could argue, a soft double-knock echoed on the frosted glass door.

Rosalie pushed the door open. The heavy scent of her floral perfume immediately clashed with the sterile smell of the lab.

She wore a soft, pastel sweater. She smiled warmly, her eyes locking onto Dorian.

The system panel in her mind glowed gold. [Target: Dorian. Genius Alchemist. High-value resource. Initiate charm protocol.]

Rosalie walked slowly toward the workbench. "Your precision is amazing, Senior Dorian," she said, her voice laced with a subtle, magical vibration meant to induce affection.

She pulled a leather-bound notebook from her bag. She stepped uncomfortably close to him, leaning over the table to point at a complex diagram of blood crystal extraction.

Dorian felt the unnatural shift in the air magic. The perfume burned his sensitive nose.

He took a smooth, deliberate step backward, completely dodging her physical proximity. He pushed his goggles up his nose and glanced at the notebook.

It was a trap question. The formula looked simple, but it required an innate, terrifying understanding of bloodline origins to solve without causing an explosion.

Dorian looked up. His eyes were flat and completely unaffected by her charm.

"This is a pureblood origin problem," Dorian said flatly. "You should ask your roommate, Genevieve."

Rosalie froze. Her sweet smile turned rigid.

"Sister Genevieve?" Rosalie repeated, her voice tight. "But... she's been so unwell lately. She can't even hold a basic spell together."

Ronan let out a sharp bark of laughter from the doorway.

"Perfect!" Ronan said, pushing off the doorframe. "This is the ultimate test. Take it to Genevieve. Let's see if she's actually brain-dead or just playing us."

Dorian nodded slowly. A spark of genuine excitement lit up his eyes.

"I agree," Dorian said, looking at Rosalie. "I am very curious to see how a pureblood handles this specific extraction variable. Go ask her."

Rosalie was trapped. The system alarms blared in her head, demanding she complete the interaction, but Dorian had completely shut her down.

She forced a nod. She grabbed her notebook, her knuckles turning white. She spun around and marched out of the lab, her heels clicking angrily against the floor tiles.

Ronan watched her go. He wrinkled his nose.

"That half-blood is exhausting," Ronan muttered.

Dorian didn't answer. He picked his dropper back up, but his mind was already miles away. He needed to know what Genevieve would do.

Across the campus, inside the dark, gothic dorm room, Genevieve lay in a woven hammock.

She had a cherry-blood lollipop shoved in her cheek. She held a trashy romance novel above her face, kicking her leg lazily over the edge of the hammock.

Suddenly, a sharp tickle hit her nose.

Genevieve sneezed violently. The hammock swung wildly.

She rubbed her nose, glaring at the ceiling. "Someone is definitely plotting against me," she muttered. She flipped the page of her book and went back to reading.