Chapter 2 ~Vivaldi's POV~

SO, THERE I AM, BLOOD RUNNING cold as ice, 'cause I know things are about to get as messy as a food fight in a cafeteria.

I do that thing where I tilt my head, lips scrunching into a perfect 'O', trying to remember what I'd said about this guy. Oh, right—Mr. Bean Head and his shiny baldness. Yup, I'd stepped in it now, like a fresh pile of dog poo on a brand-new pair of sneakers.

I let out a fake laugh, "I say, I want a mug of beer!" But he's not buying my little song and dance. Nope, not even for a hot second.

His chest puffs up like a rooster about to crow as he growls, "No, no. What did you call me?"

I cough, brain scrambling for an escape hatch. "Uh, I said, Mr. Blonde Head!" I lie through my teeth, praying he'll swallow it like a greedy bass at a fishing derby.

This guy, bless his heart, looks utterly baffled as he stares at his reflection in a shiny bottle behind the bar, running a hand over his smooth scalp. "But… I'm not a blonde," he points out, his brow scrunched up like a confused puppy.

Alright, buddy, you asked for it. A mischievous grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. This is gonna be good. "If you're not a blonde," I say, dragging it out for dramatic effect, "then that means you're a…"

I let my words hang in the air, cranking up the tension like a game show host. Someone's about to blow their lid, no doubt about it! Time to spill the beans—or, well, the lack thereof.

"Don't you dare say it," he growls, trying to put a cork in my mouth, but it's too late. The cat's out of the bag, and those three little words are doing the tango on the tip of my tongue. With a devilish grin, I unleash 'em: "Bald bean head!"

The guy's face goes from confused to furious in a heartbeat, his eyes bulging like they're about to pop out of their sockets.

The dude's face turns beet red, practically steaming like a cartoon character. He thumps his chest all King Kong-like, and I'm pretty sure he's about to turn me into a human pancake with those gorilla-sized fists of his. I flinch, nearly tumbling off my bar stool, but manage to grab the edge of the counter just in the nick of time. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact, but the blow never comes.

Cautiously, I open one eye just a sliver, only to find the big guy frozen like a statue, fist hanging in midair. His eyes are bugging out like he's just seen a ghost, or maybe, just maybe, it's finally hitting him that the "customer" he's been bickering with isn't some burly biker, but a pint-sized punk.

I'm decked out head to toe in full rebel gear—leather jacket studded and gleaming, skin-tight black t-shirt, jeans ripped up like a tiger got to 'em, and a pair of scuffed combat boots for that extra "don't mess with me" vibe. Topping it all off, a backwards cap and graffiti bandana, because why not?

Beneath the edgy getup, my face tells a different tale. My puppy-dog eyes, a light brown that seems to glow under the neon lights, give me an innocent vibe that's hard to miss. And my cheeks, well, they're soft and round, practically screaming "youth" despite my hardcore outfit. Even my button nose adds to the whole "baby-faced" thing I've got going on.

I might look tough as nails, but let's be real—my physique's not exactly Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson material.

Puzzled, I can't help but blurt out, "What?"

The guy's still staring at me like I'm some sort of alien, looking totally bewildered. Finally, he says, "You're a child." No kidding, Sherlock. But being called a child really grinds my gears, so I scrunch up my face and roll my eyes in frustration.

"Quit calling me a child, already!" I snap, getting real fed up with this guy's attitude.

He lets out a snarky laugh, all smug and superior. "Oh, I'm sorry. What should I call you then, huh? A dwarf?"

I narrow my eyes, irritation prickling under my skin. "You better quit making fun of me," I warn, "or I'll start calling you bal-."

His hands fly up in surrender, eyes wide with alarm. "No, no, no! I'll stop, I'll stop!"

I can't help but smirk, feeling pretty smug for finding his weak spot. But then he goes and switches tactics on me, like a goalie trying to block a penalty kick.

"Seriously, though, what are you doing out so late?" he asks, all concerned-like. "Shouldn't you be all tucked in bed, dreaming about candy or superheroes or whatever kids dream about these days?"

"I already told you," I groan, rolling my eyes so hard they might as well be on a roller coaster. "I want a glass of your strongest brew!"

"Not gonna happen, kiddo," he says, all high and mighty.

"And why the heck not?" I demand, crossing my arms and putting on my best "don't mess with me" face.

"Because we don't serve kids! I could end up in jail just for letting a little guy like you sip a drop of the strong stuff," he explains, like he's talking to a toddler.

I glare at him, giving him my best death stare. "Watch it, pal. You just called me a child again," I snap, my voice as sharp as a butcher's cleaver.

He puts his hands up in surrender, like I've got a loaded water pistol aimed at his face. "Sorry, sorry," he says, clearly not wanting to be on the receiving end of my wrath. "But seriously, you gotta go. It's way past your bedtime, kiddo."

I clutch my stomach like it's about to stage a full-on rebellion. "Come on, man," I plead, channeling my inner drama queen. "My poor gut needs this! Have a heart, will ya?"

The bartender gives me a sharp look, his forehead wrinkling up like a discarded candy wrapper. That's when things get real wild. This dude shoves his hand into his pocket like he's digging for buried treasure and pulls out a fistful of change. "Alright, here's the deal," he says, flashing me a grin. And get this—he actually tries to hand me the money, like I'm some kind of street urchin!

"Here, take this and find something to fill that empty stomach of yours," he says, stretching his hand over the counter.

"Look, old man, I don't need your pocket change," I say, trying to stay as cool as a polar bear in a snowstorm. "I could buy this whole bar if I wanted to," I inform him, crossing my arms to show him I mean business. "All I want is a glass of your strongest brew." But this guy is as stubborn as a mule in quicksand. He just won't budge.

"You're taking up enough of my time already, kid," he snaps, his patience wearing thinner than a cheap t-shirt. "I think it's time for you to hit the road."

"Hit the road?" I think to myself. "No way. I came here for a drink, and I'm not leaving 'til I get it." So, I look him straight in the eye, unwavering like a cat staring down a mouse, and say, "Not without my booze, buddy boy."

"I said get outta here!" The guy's face turns redder than a beet, like he's about to blow his top. But I'm not about to throw in the towel just yet. "Would you rather make me choose blood over booze?" I challenge him, arching an eyebrow like a cartoon villain plotting world domination.

He wags his finger in front of my face, trying to look all tough and intimidating. "Don't make me come out from behind this counter, kid, or you'll regret it."

That's when I know—things are about to get wilder than a pack of feral cats at a catnip convention.

So I just sit there, a sly grin spreading across my face like a Cheshire cat. "You don't want to kick me outta here," I say.

The guy's face is now the color of a ripe cherry, veins bulging under his skin like he's auditioning for a bodybuilding competition. I can't help but wonder what it'd feel like to sink my teeth into that pulsating neck of his.

"You bet I do!" he shoots back, looking madder than a wet hen. His anger is so thick I can practically taste it—and it's getting me all riled up, like a bull seeing red.

"You're gonna regret this," I warn him, flicking my eyes to a fiery red just for that extra 'wow' factor. And boy, does it work! His eyes widen in terror, like he's just seen a ghost, and he flinches like a mouse cornered by a hungry tomcat.

"Oh my goodness!" he exclaims, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. "Get out!" he blurts, trying to sound tough, but we both know who's calling the shots now. "Out!" he shouts again, pounding his fist on the counter like he's trying to crack a walnut. That look of fear in his eyes—oh man, it's more satisfying than taking the last slice of pizza.

"Alright, alright, I'm leaving," I say, hopping off the stool like a frog on a hot plate. I spin around to face him one last time, a smirk playing on my lips. But I've got one more trick up my sleeve, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Uh, sorry to bother you," I say, not feeling sorry in the slightest. "Could you hand over that cash you promised me earlier? Turns out, I actually need it."

So here I am, watching ol' Baldhead roll his eyes at me like I'm a telemarketer calling during dinner. He digs around in his pocket, probably searching through his collection of lint and expired coupons, and pulls out two crumpled-up bills. These things look like they've been through the wringer, and even a desperate gambler would think twice before touching them.

"Here, take it," he grumbles, shoving his hand over the counter like he's offering me a dead fish. "Now scram, and don't let me catch you around here again."

A sinister grin spreads across my face like a malevolent Cheshire cat as I eye his muscular arm. He thinks he has the upper hand, but he's about to get a rude awakening. In a flash, my hand shoots out like a serpent, seizing his arm in a grip that could pulverize diamonds. I yank him with such force he goes hurtling over the counter like a lifeless puppet.

Before his body can even collide with the floor, I feel my fangs elongating, yearning for a taste of that sweet, sweet nectar. I strike with the swiftness of a viper, sinking my razor-sharp teeth into the soft flesh of his neck. The rich, coppery tang of blood inundates my mouth, and his carotid artery erupts like a geyser, engulfing my tongue in a rapturous crimson embrace. His anguished screams reverberate throughout the bar, like the shrill vocals of an opera singer hitting a high note, but to me, they're a delightful symphony of despair.