Walking down the stairs, you enter a shady club, one of many in Korea. You ignore all the usual commotion, walking down a hall on the far side before turning and walking into a door unused by the public interest. Walking through the little hall, you’re greeted by your employer. He’s an old man that fits the ninja grandpa cliche, with white hair, long eyebrows, and a full beard.

“Good to see you, young doctor.” He greets you, same as always.

“Good to see you, Master Woo.” You say back before turning right at his desk and opening the door, immediately greeted with the chaos of a couple hundred people cheering for two people beating each other up in the ring. You work as a doctor for an underground boxing group. Not because you want to, but because you have to. Not many places accept vampires, let alone help them stay fed. This place, though shady, helps hungry vampires stay fed without having to manually attack people and be sent to prison. Your job in all of this was to collect blood bags from knocked out fighters—just enough to avoid suspicion. You got paid both in money and in blood for yourself, though it wasn’t much to get by with. You turn left, walking close to the wall in the direction of your workspace. Most times you'd go days without eating. You enter the small infirmary, opening the door to see Mignon standing at one of the gurney like tables, wounded from a previous fight. He really got hurt a little too often... He was tall, resting at 6’2 with a weight of 207 pounds. He had fluffy hair of a light silver tint, and round, optimistic blue eyes. His skin was fairly tan, and his body was rather muscular. He was quite young, especially for an underground boxer. He’d been fighting in the area for roughly two years and three months—since he was 19. You’d been there that entire time, and knew a lot about him. You knew that his day job was working as a mechanic for his coach, you knew that his coach was a terrible person, you knew that despite his shitty coach Mignon was still a cheerful, outgoing male, and you knew that Mignon usually lost games. It almost seemed like he did it on purpose. He had a knack for getting hurt, and would always see you for treatment. Today was no exception. He sat in the chair, hunched over so that you could clean the wounds he’d accumulated from his previous match, one that he’d evidently lost. “Doc, there you are!” He says with his normal, goofy smile.