Michael "Micheletto" Corella

Michael hadn't exactly meant to be so taken up with work, but he hadn't fought it off either. But as the date of Kersen's trial loomed nearer and nearer, he did his best to wrap everything up in time. He managed, only just, and found himself finally available, one or two hours after the sunset, the last evening before the trial.

He could have gone back home and rested, but instead he leaned under a porch in the street and typed out a quick, simple text to Kersen. Where are you?

Michael did not know what to expect. Kersen had woken him up with a phone call, saying he had some news, but of what sort? At least he had not sounded injured, or upset. After pulling on some track bottoms and a tank top, Michael had made coffee, and it was dripping into the pot when Kersen knocked on the door. He went and opened it, moving out of the way for the vampire to come in.

Michael was on his way home when he noticed that he was being trailed. He was on his way back home from a quick stop at Kersen's bar, which made it very unlikely that it was a professional trail. It was, however, very likely a vampiric one, and that was, in a lot of ways, more dangerous. It was too late to lose anyone on the Tube, so he made sure to remain in populated areas until he could hail a cab.

He got off in another crowded street, and climbed into another. Three rides later, he was confident he'd lost his trail, but just in case, he found a bar to have a drink in. Or so it seemed. When he went to the back on the pretext of using the loo, he slipped out the back door and meant to head off.

He'd underestimated the vampires on his trail, however. He hated underestimating people. He barely had time to wound one with his silver knife that he was thrown back against the wall of the alley with such force and speed that he barely had time to react. His head hit the wall, and then there was only black.

Until there was pain, throbbing at his temples, and a numb feeling in his hands, and his right arm. He kept his breathing as even as he could and focused on what he could feel and hear. His hands were tied behind his back, tight enough to make blood flow difficult, but with rope instead of zip ties. A rookie mistake. He was lying on his side, curled up. He wasn't alone, but there was no use letting them know he was awake already.

"You realise we can hear your heartbeat, bloodbag?" a male voice pointed out, Estuary accent strong.

"Let him play dead if he wants," another male voice cut in, sounding more cultured. "I'll ring his boyfriend. Go check on 'Chelle."

Two talking, but there had been at least three cornering him in that alley. 'Chelle was probably the one he'd injured, but things had gone too fast, and his memories were fuzzy at best. Footsteps came closer, and then a boot connected with his stomach, hard enough that he found himself curled up on his side, coughing and trying not to throw up. Probably concussed.

"She oughta do the honours on him," the first voice stated, before the footsteps receded.

Michael blinked his eyes open just in time to see the back of the first vampire as he walked out of the room. Tall and wide enough that even as a human, he might have given Michael a run for his money. The room looked like a cellar, mostly empty, lit by a single light bulb.

The second vampire crouched down in front of him. Dressed in a suit, Black, and looking at Michael as if he were a butterfly he intended to pin into his collection as he brought the mobile he'd lifted off of Michael to his ear.

"Anything I should pass on to your boyfriend?" he inquired.

Michael's only answer was to spit some blood on the floor.

Michael adjusted his jacket as he walked out of the club, feeling restless and frustrated. No one of interest here, and he cut through a dark side street towards a club on the edges of Soho, hoping that he would be luckier there. You did not do what he did without developing a keen sixth sense, however, and he could tell someone was watching him about twenty metres into the street.

No one was there, and then suddenly two figures stood a few metres from him. He could only just make them out in the half-light, a man in his thirties, tall and built like someone who could be a threat, his arm around a younger-looking blonde woman, who looked nothing like a threat. "He's all yours, babe," he told her in a foreign accent.

The girl smiled, a predatory smile, and before Michael had a chance to react, he'd been shoved into a wall, all breath pushed from his lungs. The woman stood above him as he struggled to get up, and she smiled again, looked over at her companion. "He's got spirit."

And then she'd moved with that same remarkable speed, that speed Michael was powerless against, and crouched over him, holding one of his arms in a surprisingly strong grip, and his hair in her other hand, pulling his head to the side to give herself clear access to his neck.

The pain was just like that of being stabbed, sharpness followed by dull, throbbing pain beating at his neck, but before the side effect of the bite had time to kick in, the silver knife Michael never went anywhere without anymore slid between her ribs and straight into her heart. She made a surprised sound and fell away from him, blood dripping from her mouth.