[Dark Saint Alaick]

You might think we don’t really NEED air. Not on a physical level. The lungs don’t do
anything with it. But we can feel the different between stagnant indoor manufactured air and the
real thing.
I need the real thing.
I need air that doesn’t reek of the recreational pharmaceuticals that fill Martin’s Club. I need
air that doesn’t weigh heavy with the odor of unmentionable bodily fluids like the air in the
special “guest suites” behind Martin’s club.
So I step out into the alley behind the Club as I put on my black trench. I feel the tingle of cold
against my skin, like a thousand tiny fingernails tapping on my cheek. I pretend to shiver
because the people around me shiver. I hate the cold. Not because it bothers me, but because it
makes it easy for mortals to notice you’re not breathing.
I’m not the only one not breathing in this alley.