As he poured his breakfast into a cup he pondered the truth of it. He couldn't give up blood if he wanted to live, but biting was a facet of his nature that he could do without, so that was the new rule.

But he missed it, sometimes even more than the taste of human blood. He used to love the feeling of his fangs in a neck. Later he would vent his frustrations on the rats, biting down on them so hard their little spines would break. Now? He had cups.

...And for the harder days, his own arm.