Dead Plate Oneshots Drained

The night was heavy, suffocating in its silence. The narrow streets of Paris lay empty beneath the blanket of darkness, the warmth of day forgotten as cold tendrils of fog curled between the cobblestones. High above, the moon sat low, an unwelcome witness to the secrets that the city hid. Manon Vacher crouched in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, her breath shallow, her heart hammering in her chest. She kept her eyes fixed on the dark façade of *La Gueule de Saturne*, its ornate sign barely visible in the weak glow of a nearby streetlamp.

The bistro. It was always the bistro. The bodies had been piling up for weeks now. Every corpse found drained of blood, left pale and cold in alleys like the one she hid in now. And all of them, every single one, had last been seen near this place. The trail led to Vincent Charbonneau, the man who owned the bistro and ruled it like a king with his soft-spoken demeanor and impeccable reputation.

Everyone loved him. How could they not? He was the perfect host, the perfect chef—quiet, polite, with an almost ethereal charm that drew people to him like moths to a flame. But Manon wasn’t fooled. Beneath that placid surface, she was certain something was wrong. Vincent was hiding something, something dark.

And she intended to find out what.

She had been following him for days now, watching as he stayed late into the night after the last customer had left, disappearing behind the doors of his beloved bistro. The killings happened too close to his business, and the police—useless as they were—had written it off as coincidence. But Manon knew better. She could smell the rot beneath the glossy surface of the restaurant’s pristine reputation.

Tonight, she would prove it.

She waited until the last patron staggered out, the door swinging shut behind them with a soft click. The windows went dark shortly after, the flicker of candles extinguished one by one. All was silent now, save for the faint hum of the city far off in the distance.

Manon moved quietly, her heart pounding in her chest as she crept toward the side door of the bistro. She had come prepared this time—lockpicks hidden in her coat, the tools of a journalist turned investigator, someone who had learned long ago that rules didn’t always lead to the truth. She knelt by the door, her fingers working with practiced precision as the lock clicked open. A soft exhale of breath, and the door creaked inward.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and something metallic—something that tugged at her senses, a reminder of the bodies she had seen. The dining area was deserted, chairs neatly arranged, tables spotless. Everything was too perfect, just as she had expected. Vincent’s obsessive nature extended to every detail of his establishment. Even in the darkness, there was a chill to the place, something cold and predatory lurking just beyond the edge of perception.

Manon’s steps were careful, barely a whisper against the tiled floor as she moved deeper into the bistro. Her gaze swept the room, searching for any sign of Vincent. He had to be here. She knew he stayed late—she had watched him. He always lingered long after the last light went out, like a man waiting for something—or someone.

Then she saw it. A faint sliver of light spilling from the kitchen, the heavy door slightly ajar. Her heart raced as she approached, her breath shallow and quick. She could hear something now—a sound that made her blood run cold. It was a low, wet noise, like the sound of flesh being torn apart.

Manon hesitated at the door, her hand trembling as she pushed it open just enough to see inside.

And there, in the dim light of the kitchen, was Vincent.

He was pinned against the wall, his body slack, his head tilted to the side as blood streamed from the pale skin of his neck. But it wasn’t the sight of Vincent that made her stomach churn with horror. No, it was the figure standing before him—the thing that was feeding on him.

A man, tall and broad, with thick auburn hair that fell in disarray over his forehead. His face was buried in Vincent’s neck, his lips moving as he drank deeply, the soft sound of slurping filling the air. His hands gripped Vincent’s arms, holding him against the wall with ease.

Manon’s breath caught in her throat. This was no ordinary murder.

The man drinking from Vincent—*Rody*, she realized, recognizing him as the bistro’s waiter—wasn’t just feeding. He was *draining* him. The thought of blood coursing into that creature’s mouth made her skin crawl.

Vincent wasn’t fighting. He stood there, his eyes half-closed, his face slack with an expression that could have been either pain or surrender. His skin was ghastly pale, even more so than usual, and his lips parted as if to whisper something, but no words came. The candlelight flickered in his black eyes, dull and lifeless.

Rody pulled back, a deep breath escaping him as he straightened. His green eyes gleamed unnaturally in the dim light, his mouth slick with Vincent’s blood. Manon felt bile rise in her throat at the sight of it. She had never believed in monsters, not really, but there was no other word for what she was seeing now.

“Enough,” Vincent rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand weakly reached for Rody, but it was more of a plea than a command.

Manon took a step back, her mind racing. This wasn’t what she had expected. She had thought Vincent was the predator, the one behind the bloodless bodies in the alleys. But now, she realized he wasn’t the hunter at all.

He was the prey.

Before she could retreat any further, her foot struck a metal tray that had been left on the floor. The clatter rang out through the bistro, loud and unnatural in the silence. Rody’s head snapped toward the sound, his predatory gaze locking onto her instantly.

Manon’s heart stopped. She froze, her blood running cold as Rody’s lips curled into a slow, dark smile. He licked the blood from his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice low and thick with amusement. “What do we have here?”

Vincent’s gaze flickered toward her as well, his face blank, unreadable. He didn’t call for help. He didn’t try to stop Rody. He just stood there, his hand pressed weakly to the wound on his neck, blood seeping through his fingers.

Manon stumbled backward, her hands shaking. “I— I’m leaving,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. But even as the words left her mouth, she knew it was a lie. She wouldn’t leave. She *couldn’t* leave. Rody would never let her.

Rody’s smile widened, his sharp teeth glinting in the light. “You should have stayed away,” he said, his voice a soft purr. “You should have kept to your little stories and left the truth buried. But now…” He stepped toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, like a lion stalking its prey.

Manon’s back hit the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She fumbled for the door behind her, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the handle, but it was too late. Rody was already there, his hand wrapping around her wrist with a strength that made her bones ache.

“You’ve seen too much,” he whispered, leaning in close. His breath was hot against her skin, the scent of blood thick on his lips. “And now you’ll never leave.”

He slammed her against the wall, his grip tightening. Manon cried out, struggling against him, but it was useless. He was too strong. His fingers dug into her skin, bruising her, holding her in place like a rag doll.

Vincent watched from the corner, his expression distant, as if he were somewhere far away. Manon locked eyes with him, pleading silently for him to stop this, to help her. But he didn’t move.

*He’s lost,* she realized. *He belongs to him now.*

“Vincent,” she gasped, her voice choked with fear. “Please—”

Rody laughed softly, a dark, cruel sound that sent shivers down her spine. “He’s not going to help you, he’s mine,” Rody said, his voice filled with possession. “My pretty little thrall.”

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her neck, and Manon felt the cold touch of death closing in around her.

In the last moments before his fangs pierced her skin, she realized with a sickening clarity that it wasn’t Vincent she had to fear.

It had always been Rody.

And now, she would become just another bloodless corpse, left to rot in the alley behind the bistro.