The splash of blood, the echoes of screams, the look of terror in their eyes...these sensations tore at Ian, who felt himself clawing at the red veil trying to stop the events before him. Yet they unfolded, they always did in the end; he knew this all too well, but his nature compelled him to do so...even if the result, gutwrenching as it is, was always the same for him. The scene of animalistic bloodshed raged on before him like a horror movie; only, he wasn't the viewer here. In fact, the monster performing this atrocity was him, an animalistic monstrosity driven by the plague within his veins that buried his humanity deep for over a lifetime.

That last word came out just as his voice began to break, he could no longer bear to watch the act unfold...yet he was anchored to the spot, watching as the nightmare reached its dreadful conclusion; the screams fell to a choked gasp, until the silence was all that remained. The scene then followed to a partially-broken mirror, catching what was left of the lamp's light. Reflecting back it Ian was his own face; his eyes near-black from the dilation of his pupils, and his face caked in freshly-spilled blood. He could right there, clinging to his beard, still warm and fresh from the body. For a moment, his monstrous self seemed to be mesmerised by the mirror; for a moment, it seemed to reach for it. At the same time, his own was reaching for it, until both hands seem to press on both sides of the mental glass. Hours seemed to pass as the two Ians seemed to stare at each other; the animalistic one seemed to recognise his humane self for but a moment, before his lips bared themselves into a snarl; the glass crashed around them as the monster leapt for the man, eager to sample its own blood.

And it was that moment that Ian finally tore himself from the dream, gasping for the air of reality and caked in sweat. Much to his relief, he was in his 'apartment', for lack of a better term for former containment units. Looking around, he found himself once more greeted by the welcome oily and pungent scent of the Junkyard, and the sound of rain falling upon the metal. The Infected sat up, cradling his head for a moment as though he had a huge headache for the glimmer of a second. Blearily, he glanced around; there was his wardrobe, and then his desk, which had a good bit of paper on it. Hmm, I suppose I better get to work on that for the Boss soon. He thought to himself, before reaching for a small box. Turning the dial-in code, which he had tuned to the year of his birth, he would open its refrigerated innards to reveal a multitude of blood packs. All of these had been declared unviable for human usage, either due to being out of date or being contaminated with minor infections. These were things Ian could easily consume. As such, he reached for one of bags and, with an extention of his fangs, tore it open and gulped the contents down; it wasn't as pleasant as blood harvested from surgical procedures, but it at least sated his appetite. After a few minutes, the Vampire would discard the empty bag in his own fire. After that was done, he would put on his leather greatcoat, unlock the door to his cubicle and then went out on the balcony. Resting himself upon the rail, he looked up at the sky, allowing the rain to fall onto his face; it was quite the invigorating sensation for Ian, it felt as though it could cleanse him the blood on his hands. Yet the stains always remain came the guilt-laden thought. At this moment in time, he simply allowed himself to savour the sensation of the dawnlit rain upon him.