When it first started, the desire for blood was unquenchable. I don’t remember how it happened, or even who I was before it. It was as if the thirst overtook everything.

In the beginning I fed on whatever I could: men, women, children, animals, carcasses. As time went on, my abilities improved. I became faster, stronger, my thoughts more clear. Even some desires from my past life returned. I occasionally found myself in bed with beautiful women. Some I let live, others I enjoyed completely.

In the year 1911, I was discovered for my crimes. Pictures of my pasty face were scattered all over the city with the words “WANTED” above it.

I was foolish back then. I embraced the fame, descending from dark alleys and rooftops, undisturbed by the onlooker who watched me feed. I knew they couldn’t stop me. Of course they tried. They'd set traps, thrown rocks, attempted to hit me with bats, shovels, pitchforks. Still, they couldn’t hurt me…

Until fire.

The first torch lit my entire body in flames. The pain was unlike anything I’d felt, living or dead. It burned until every inch of fair skin was gone, leaving only boils and the raw flesh underneath. The next day, the entire city was armed with torches, and my reign was over.

I had no choice but to run. I went into hiding. For years I fed on rodents and people wandering too far from the cities’ edge. My strength weakened, my thoughts became unclear. I became more creature than man, a monster with only instinct and desire.

Slowly my burns healed and my skin grew back. As the years passed, the world changed, but the thirst never went away.

I decided to do things differently. I learned to scope the places where criminals and addicts roamed. These were the sort of people who went missing everyday, and no one cared. To be safe, I made a simple set of rules: no groups, no cameras, no innocents.

That’s when everything changed. Criminals had a taste for drugs, and soon I did too. It was addictive. The heroin in their veins was my favorite. I could taste it, sending waves of pleasure up my fangs. Eventually it became my preference, and I learned to smell it while hunting.

One night I came across the sweetest smell. The hunger took over, and I broke my own rule. I snuck into a warehouse and killed six men to get to the one they were guarding. His scent was overpowering. I took him to my lair and fed for three days. I didn’t even mind the blood going cold. I savored every drop.

Six days later I was walking the streets, face covered by black cap and hoodie, when a group of teenagers began trailing me. Even from fifty feet away, I could hear their whispers.

“It’s him.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Look, same hoodie. Pants. Freaky shoulders. Everything.”

Amused, I turned around and exposed myself to them. To my surprise, they didn’t cower. Usually my copper eyes, lifeless face and sharp bone-structure frightened the bravest of men. Not these. These begged for autographs.

“Told you!”

“Did he cry when you killed him?”

“What did you do with the body?”

“Will you take a picture with us, please?”

I awkwardly ran away. I’d never been so humiliated. For as long as I remembered, I’d been feared. Somehow these boys were smiling and laughing at me. Was I loosing my edge?

For hours I’d wondered what'd changed. I inspected my face and teeth in the mirror, but everything appeared the same.

Then, later that night, I heard it. As I walked a narrow street, brooding and seeking a heroin-laced snack, my ears picked up the sound. The voice of a broadcaster on the other side of a wall pierced me like a stake to the heart.

“He’s being called, ‘the hero of our time', 'zombie man', and 'hooded vigilante'," the telecaster said, a woman with a deep voice. Even with the television on low volume, I heard clearly. "After being caught on camera breaking into the warehouse of drug lord Santos Esteban, this hooded figure was seen fleeing the scene with Esteban’s lifeless body. Since then, federal authority’s have stated they're now looking for this figure, for the body of Esteban, and insisting the vigilante is, in no way affiliated with the FBI.

"Speculation has arisen as to the motive of the vigilante, though many believe he is simply acting on heroism. Videos of him decapitating the six armed guards to get to Esteban have circulated online, but the footage is too graphic to show here. There has been several alleged sightings of this man since the death of Esteban, one week ago, but analysts agree, none are real.

"Well, just today, four teenage boys have come forward and they are certain they have, in fact, spotted the hooded vigilante. Before we show their footage, I urge viewers to view with discretion. The face beneath the hood is… difficult to look at.”

My fangs nearly fell to the floor. For the first time in my life, I was a hero.