The campfire had burned down to little tongues of orange licking the wood, and above, the clouds had shifted enough to reveal patches of a silver, broken moon.
Tom leaned back on the stone wall, his hands behind his head, staring at the stars that struggled against the haze. Beside him, Vera sat cross-legged, posture sharp, every movement deliberate, like someone who carried discipline in his bones.
"You're stiff, buddy." Tom muttered, smirking without looking over. "If you keep sitting like that, you'll turn into a statue. Then we'll have to sell you off as bunker décor."
Vera's mouth tugged into something that almost looked like a smile, but didn't quite get there. "What if I do? At least I'd be more useful than you lying around, pretending to read the sky."
Tom chuckled. "Pretending? Nah. I'm cataloging constellations. Mapping possibilities as much possible. The next great explorer of the galaxy, right here." He stretched out his arm dramatically toward the stars.
"Explorer? More like a fool." Vera's voice was dry, calm. "….I suppose a fool who can fight is better than nothing."
Tom turned his head and grinned at him. "I'll take that as a compliment."
They stayed like that for a while, quiet, the kind of silence that wasn't heavy but comfortable. The kind where neither felt the need to fill the air. Just breathing, existing, just being… alive. For Tom, it felt normal.
His chest heaved. A ripple passed through him like a thread pulled taut. He sat up, glancing around the bunker yard. Nothing obvious happening all around.
"You feel that?" he asked lowly.
Vera was already on his feet, trident sliding into his grip with a fluidity that made it clear he'd felt it too. "Think so." His voice was flat, unreadable. "Something is here."
Tom moved forward slowly, scanning the edge of the trees, the corners of the bunker wall, the broken fence where weeds grew. His steps were soft, careful.
Every nerve stood on edge. The world seemed thinner, as if something pressed against it from the other side, searching for a way in.
A figure dropped from above, between Tom and Vera landing with a wet, metallic thud that reverberated through the ground. His presence was wrong. The air bent around him. His crimson coat fluttered as though a storm clung to it, though the night was still. His eyes, glowing like coals buried deep in ash, locked first on Tom, then on Vera.
"Ah," he breathed out, lips curling into a grin too sharp to be casual. "So these are the rats scurrying around this little bunker." He tilted his head, the bones in his neck cracking audibly. "Let's skip the pleasantries, hm? I'll make this quick."
Vera raised his trident, face still calm, but his stance shifted into readiness. Tom's blood surged hot. He forced a smile, masking the spike of fear.
"And who the hell are you supposed to be?" Tom asked, steadying his voice.
The figure spread his arms wide, almost theatrically. "Fahrenheit," he said smoothly, his voice low but searing. "Remember the name. I'll be the last warmth you ever feel."
Fahrenheit stood there like he owned the night, boots spread just wide enough to make the ground creak under his presence. His grin never faltered.
His crimson coat swayed even though the air had stilled to stone. He let his eyes move lazily from Vera's rigid stance to Tom's slightly hunched posture, drinking in their discomfort like wine.
"You two," he began, voice dripping with amusement, "look like you're posing for a painting. The noble statue and the scruffy dreamer. How.… poetic." He leaned forward slightly, one hand behind his back, mocking the posture of a courtly bow. "Humans are always trying so hard to look meaningful. What is it with you? Afraid if you stop standing so tall, someone might notice you're just meat pretending to matter?"
Tom forced a smirk. "That's rich, words coming from a guy who looks like he just stepped out of a bad theatre play."
"Oh," Fahrenheit chuckled, his laugh carried dry and sharp tones, "you bite back and I like that. They show their fear in the eyes sight." His gaze lingered on Tom, almost like he was peeling layers off him with just a stare. "Hmm.... You're hiding something. Not very well, but it's there."
Tom lowered his head slightly, pretending to shift his footing but in truth, he let his Face stir. That hidden pull opened behind his eyes, and suddenly, Fahrenheit's aura unfolded in front of him like ink bleeding through water. A storm of crimson veins and shadows coiled around the figure, dripping hunger. Tom's mind came an understanding.
Vampire.
He masked the realization, but his glance slid sideways, just enough for Vera to catch. A quiet nod, a warning delivered without a word.
Before Vera could adjust, the ground behind Tom turned colder. A shiver slid up his spine. From the very edge of his shadow, something rose. A figure, thin and graceful, like smoke pulling itself into form. A woman's silhouette stepped out, pale face shimmering faintly, lips curved into something both playful and predatory.
Sonia.
Her hands brushed the air like she was painting, and Tom felt a tug on his consciousness. Heavy, slow, dizzying. His knees threatened to buckle as if he were being lulled into a dream not his own.
"Fall, little boy," Sonia whispered, her voice carrying both lullaby sweetness and graveyard chill. "Sleep in me."
Tom's teeth clenched. His body swayed, but in the same instant, Vera moved, ready to strike her down.
Fahrenheit blurred forward, intercepting, his laugh splitting the air like fog. He swiped his hand and the air cracked, crimson arcs spiraling like liquid knives toward Vera. "Ah-ah," Fahrenheit sang mockingly. "One at a time, little boy. Patience please, we'll all get our turn."
Tom's vision fogged, but his instincts flared. He spun, rotating the air itself behind him with a pulse of force, his Face sharpening reality like a blade. The distortion snapped forward at Sonia, the pressure strong enough to twist bone. He aimed to snap her head clean.
Sonia came out to be faster. With a shimmer, her body bent impossibly, melting back into the shadow she'd come from. She slipped away like water poured through cracks, vanishing before the distortion crushed where she'd stood.
Tom staggered, catching his breath. "Almost…."
Vera slid back, trident raised, sparks of condensed water running along its edge. Across from them, Fahrenheit straightened, his grin only wider now. He twirled his hand like a conductor over an orchestra. "Ah, this is delightful. Meat with spirit. Blood always tastes better when the heart fights to keep it."
Rosario lay on the cold floor, back pressed against the wall, surrounded by survivors huddled close for warmth. The faint breathing of children, the nervous shifting of older ones, and the scratch of someone's boots against stone filled the silence. He had just started to drift, his eyelids were tired, when a sound pricked his ear.
It wasn't the usual creak of the bunker settling. Like nails tracing the outside wall.
Rosario's eyes shot open. He stayed still, listening. Once, twice. Then it the sound again. A dragging sound, farther away this time, but clear.
He sat up slowly, voice low and steady, but his tone left no room for argument.
"Stay together. Nobody leaves this room. Not for anything until I come back."
A few of the younger ones looked up at him, wide-eyed. One of the men started to ask what is it, but Rosario raised a finger to his lips. Silence fell again, heavy and waiting.
He adjusted the dagger at his waist—Omen, its weight was familiar and he slipped quietly through the door, every step deliberate. The hallway outside felt colder than before, the air damp and stale.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bunker, Grace rubbed her tired eyes as she left her room. Her book lay half-open on the desk, the pages still flickering from her study. She was halfway down the corridor, heading for the washroom, when she stopped her step.
That same noise.
A dragging sound, faint but unmistakable. It rolled down the hallway, bouncing off the walls until it was impossible to tell from which direction it came. Her heart gave one hard thump.
Grace stood very still, the hair at the back of her neck rising. The washroom door was just ahead, but her eyes slid toward the main corridor, deeper into the bunker.