You got turned sometime in 1913, 1914, and at first it seemed like a good deal, eternal life, eternal youth, the blood-red music of the night, all that late night glamour, but the guy who turned you got bored real quick and dropped you in Spokane five years later and it’s been rough ever since.
Like, you don’t need to eat, or anyway not food you have to buy, but you still need a place to park the old corpse come sunrise, and that’s just been harder and harder to come by over the years. Ain’t like you get alimony, and there ain’t a lot of jobs that fit your hours. Forget climbing the ladder, too; no one schmoozes with the night owl shift, and a promotion inevitably means sunlight.
You work in the mines for decades, another sunless, miserable face coming out of the gloom, but no one swinging a pick ever got rich that way, and you sure didn’t. You sold stolen weed for a while, using those keen extra-human senses to sniff out free ditch weed along the highway before the cops could burn it, but they’ve legalized the damn stuff now and nobody’s buying from a clammy weirdo squatting in an abandoned warehouse anymore, not when there’s a clean white store with everyone in a collared shirt every three miles.
Murder’s fun and all but it doesn’t pay the bills. Nobody even carries cash anymore.