biography.

Seola Kang was not born out of love, but out of a moment stolen in the dark.
Her mother was a gentle healer, running a quiet apothecary nestled between Seoul’s older districts. She was adjusting to her transition after moving away from Bangkok, Thailand, in order to properly start a new life for herself.
One summer evening, a man with sunlight in his eyes and darkness under his skin entered her shop. His name was Ji-Ho, and unknown to her, he was a daywalker—a vampire who bore the curse but none of its mortal limitations. Their meeting was brief, but its consequences would last forever.

Nine months later, under a blood moon, her mother gave birth to Seola. Her cries came with icy breath; her eyes shimmered an unnatural silver even as a newborn. The midwife left in terror. No one wanted to touch the cursed child. But her mother, full of quiet courage, loved her daughter regardless. She raised Seola hidden from the world, protecting her from prying eyes and suspicious neighbors. But some hungers cannot be hidden. And some love, no matter how pure, cannot survive the dark.

Seola was eight when the bloodlust began.
She would wake in the middle of the night, panting, her gums aching with the pressure of fangs breaking through. Her skin blistered in sunlight. Her mother tried everything—charms, herbal suppressants, prayer—but the change was inevitable. Seola was not human. Not fully.

And hunger, when starved, becomes madness.

One night, her mother sat by her daughter’s side as she convulsed, whispering, “Take what you need, baby. Just promise me you’ll come back.” Seola doesn’t remember the moment she sank her fangs into the woman’s neck. She only remembers the silence afterward. And her mother’s cold, pale face—still smiling.

It was her first kill. It broke something in her. Something vital.

She buried her mother in the garden beneath frozen soil with trembling hands and from then on, Seola walked alone.

By the time she was twelve, Seola was surviving in the alleyways of Seoul, no one to give her the status she deserved. Her face became a ghost story whispered by gang members and drug runners. When the hunger struck, she fed without memory or mercy. Her first massacre came at fourteen, when she tried to befriend a group of squatters. They teased her. Someone bled. And the beast inside took over.

Seven dead. No survivors. No one knew her name.

But legends don’t bleed like humans do. And Seola—though stronger, colder, and deadlier than she looked—was still a girl beneath the curse.

At seventeen, a dhamir named Yoshiko found her. Unlike Seola, Yoshiko had learned to live with her blood. She taught Seola how to use substitutes—animal blood, herbal mixtures, trance states. She taught her how to meditate, to pause before the hunger spoke. For the first time, Seola had something close to peace. And something close to love.
But love is dangerous when your kiss can kill.

One night, in the heat of a moment, her control snapped. Fangs grazed skin. Blood welled. She stopped herself—but just barely. The fear in Yoshiko’s eyes was enough to drive Seola into exile again. She has not seen her since.

Now, Seola hides in the shadows, living quietly in the outskirts of Seoul. She works as much as she can to support herself as a bluffer, hoping it would mask the fate of her life. Her only constant companion is her mother’s jade bracelet, worn or always kept in a box. A promise. A weight. A wound.
She walks the line between hunger and humanity. Every day is a silent battle. Every night is a chance to fall again.

But she has chosen her path: Not redemption. Not forgiveness. Only control.


Journal Entry – Page 47

Date unknown. Night. Ink smudged.

I remember the way her heartbeat slowed.

Not the screams. Not the struggle. There was none.
Just her voice.

"Take what you need, baby."

And I did.

I was too young to know what restraint meant. Too weak to stop. I only wanted the burning to go away. To feel full.

But when I opened my eyes... she was already fading.

I held her in my lap until the sun came. Her skin smelled like lavender. Her blood like warmth. And I think some part of her knew that would be the end.

People say you always remember your first kill.
I don’t remember the killing.

I remember the smile.

And I wish I didn’t.