In life, Matt had had insomnia off and on since his teenage years. Long, late nights watching tv or playing video games in his youth had become nights in front of the staring face of a computer screen, eyelids heavy, mind fuzzy with sleep deprivation but still too alert to get any restful sleep. Five years ago, after his turning, he'd thought the insomnia would leave him, and for the most part it had; besides, staying up all night was no longer an issue. If anything, it made him better company. But his master's death and his subsequent catapult into loneliness had triggered a new bout of insomnia, albeit of an entirely different kind. He was used to staying up all night, of course, but these days saw him waking earlier and earlier before the sun had set. It was the change of the season into summer, he told himself some days; it was his nerves, he told himself on others.

But regardless of the cause, the effect was him not getting nearly enough sleep to prevent his own racing thoughts in his waking hours. He had to do something, anything, that wasn't mope in his apartment trying to figure out what shade to paint the scuffed walls or browse the internet for, well, everything. Once again the new city called out to him, and after about an hour's time after the sun had set and he'd browsed Netflix fruitlessly for the millionth time, he decided to answer it. Matt shrugged on a cardigan over his heather gray shirt and fitted khaki chinos; despite the fair weather, the evenings were cooler, and besides he didn't like leaving the house without some sort of cover.

The Northside of the city was something else. Why he'd decided to leave the comfortable, almost fashionable squalor of his scruffy but sincere apartment building in River Dale for the rich district was beyond him, but it's where he'd decided to explore. The opulence and warmth of this part of town was truly remarkable, and despite the leanness to him he found he was able to blend in fairly well - or, at least, go ignored, which was good enough for him. Better to be invisible then invite contumely, or worse. He didn't have the time or the patience for that.

For the first time in a long while he found himself thinking about his hunger. It usually wasn't much of a problem; his maker had told him the importance of feeding, that vampires needed blood to survive, and that these days acquiring prepackaged blood from banks was easier than it seemed. He had a dealer who was willing and able to supply him with his weekly store, which wasn't much; three or four pint bags got him through, usually. But here and there a predatory desire raised its head in him, one that whispered about his youth and his hunger and suggested that live feeding would be much more satisfactory.

But the North neighborhood surely wasn't the place to indulge that kind of mad thinking - rich people were notoriously paranoid, in his experience. And besides, would he want to? Andrei had been careful to instruct him against live food; it was messy and could be dangerous, especially with his youth. He had to admit, though, while he'd never killed a person before, the desire was certainly there. It wasn't so much the feeling itself as his apathy about it that bothered him; surely wanting to kill was run of the mill for vampires, but shouldn't there have been something else, some... degree of tortured-soulness to the desire to take a life for sustenance? Matt wasn't sure, but the unknowing was bothersome.

He paused before a palatial building, hands dipping into his pockets to feel for the familiar box of cigarettes. He rarely smoked these days, though not for any personal health concern; it was illegal in most places, anyway. As it turned out, however, he'd forgotten the box in another pair of slacks, much to his annoyance. Instead he turned, dark eyes boring into the elegantly-fashioned stone as if he was particularly interested in the architecture instead of trying to soothe his sudden flare of anger. "Idiot," he muttered under his breath, apparently speaking to an intricately-carved stone leaf.