The shattered doorway of the subway car hanged ajar, its metallic scent mingling with the acrid smoke of gunfire. The storm outside had found its way underground, bleeding through cracked vents and the gaping hole left by the brute who had smashed his way through moments ago. Passengers sat trembling in silence, their reflections flickering in the dim overhead lights that stuttered like dying fireflies.
Among them sat a group of six.
They were out of place in every conceivable way — tall, perfectly poised, their stillness unnatural in a space defined by chaos. Though they dressed as ordinary men might, their bearing betrayed them; there was an air of high birth. The scent of leather lingered near them, faint but unmistakable.
One of the men, seated closest to the broken door, turned his gaze toward the darkness beyond where the large man and his pursuer had vanished. His expression was unreadable — it was not fear just curiosity.
"My lord," one of the others spoke in a dialect that brushed the edge of German, though older and heavier, "we should get off the... chariot."
"Very well."
The man, in the white fur trench coat — the one they called my lord — rose to his feet with calm detachment, as though he had merely been waiting for permission from his own thoughts. The five around him moved in perfect, wordless synchrony that came from years of discipline.
The terrified passengers recoiled as the six figures stepped into the aisle, boots echoing against the metallic floor. The dim light caught the gleam of wet leather beneath their coats, the faint glimmer of something metallic at their belts.
As they stepped from the train, a man's desperate voice rose behind them.
"Hey! Hey! Help me — she's been shot!"
The speaker — Michael Corvin — struggled to lift the unconscious woman, blood seeping through his fingers. But none of the six turned. None except the man in white.
He slowed. His eyes, pale and curiously bright, fell upon Michael. For a fleeting instant, confusion crossed his face — as though the language, the urgency, were foreign concepts. "What is he saying?" he asked softly, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.
"He is asking for assistance, my lord," one of his companions replied.
"Help?" The man's brow furrowed. "She is wounded. Do their air-lances kill when they strike the shoulder?"
"No, my lord," another answered, almost tender in tone. "It is not fatal. The humans will tend to their own. You need not worry."
The man in white lingered a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the trembling commuter who had found the courage to assist Michael. Something about it — the simple, terrified act of compassion — seemed to hold him in place. Then, slowly, he turned and continued on, boots clicking in rhythm with the others as they ascended the cracked station stairs.
Rain greeted them aboveground, cold and silver beneath the streetlights. Without a word, black umbrellas unfolded. One of the men shared his with another, while a third held his above their lord. The city air was heavy with static and exhaust, the sound of passing cars slicing through the night.
Ahead waited a convoy — four sleek black vehicles, engines idling, windows opaque. The driver of the lead car rushed to open a door, bowing slightly as the man in white approached. Yet, rather than enter, he stood still on the slick pavement, his gaze drifting to the cars that sped past on the wet street. The neon lights reflected in his eyes like strange colors rediscovered for the first time.
His followers waited, motionlessly reverent. Only when he turned did they move again, their obedience instinctive as if ancient.
As the convoy doors closed, one of the men spoke from the shadows of his umbrella.
"Ivan — contact Raze. Find out what's happening."
"Yes," came the curt reply, the one named Ivan walked off vanished into the haze of rainfall, the sound of his footsteps drowned by the downpour.
"Liam, you and Alexander will tail the vampires. Gather as much information as possible."
"Very well, Vij," Liam answered. Alexander nodded once, silently.
Vij — now identified — followed his lord into the car, while the remaining man took the front passenger seat beside the driver.
Engines roared softly, blending with the hum of rain. In moments, the convoy slipped into the dark artery of the city, its lights fading from sight, leaving behind only the whisper of tires over wet stone.
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The darkness of the night consumed the storm-swept skies.
On a deserted road veiled in mist, a lone vehicle cut through the gloom at high speed.
Its destination loomed ahead — an ancient manor, archaic in architecture and foreboding in presence.
At the tall iron gates, the vehicle paused. The gates opened with a slow, groaning weight, allowing passage into the shadowed courtyard. The car halted, and a solitary figure stepped out, moving swiftly toward the manor's grand entrance.
Inside, the interior was a stark contrast — illuminated by chandeliers of crystal and flame. A gathering was underway. Dozens of elegantly dressed figures filled the vast hall, their manner regal, their attire centuries out of place. Yet the strangest thing of all was their pallor — skin so pale it nearly reflected the candlelight. Perhaps it could be blamed on the chill of this hemisphere… or perhaps on something else entirely.
The newcomer moved through them quickly, ignoring the curious, knowing gazes that followed her.
It was the same woman from the subway.
Without hesitation, she entered a secured corridor where others, dressed much like her, stood at attention or moved with silent purpose.
She made her way toward a dimly lit office. Inside, a dark-skinned man appeared to be in command. Rows of meticulously arranged firearms lined the shelves behind him, each polished to a mirrored sheen.
"We have a serious problem," she said urgently, placing a weapon on his desk.
The man glanced at it, confusion shadowing his sharp features.
Within minutes, more of their kind filled the office — all clad in black trench coats, the very image of discipline and death. Leading them was a tall, pale man whose every motion carried authority. All eyes turned toward the dark-skinned man, who now held a single, blue-tipped bullet beneath a dissecting scalpel.
"I'm not certain," he murmured.
"I'd need to run a few tests."
"Ultraviolet ammunition." The woman exhaled impatiently.
Suddenly understanding dawned on his face. He quickly set the bullet down. "Daylight harnessed as a weapon…" he whispered.
"You expect me to believe some decrepit animal designed a weapon specifically to kill vampires?"
the pale man asked, disbelief heavy in his voice.
"No, more likely military—stolen tech from some high-security facility." the dark-skinned man replied.
"I don't care where they got it," the woman interrupted sharply.
"Raigel is dead, and Nathaniel could still be out there. We need to gather the Death Dealers and head back down there — in force." she stated.
"Absolutely not." The pale man's refusal was immediate. "Not now. Not for a random incursion. The Awakening is only days away. This house is restless enough as it is."
"Random incursion?" she repeated bitterly. "They opened fire on us — in full view of the public! And from the commotion I heard down in the tunnel—"
"You said yourself you didn't actually see anything," he cut her off sharply. The others in the room exchanged glances. It was not the first time these two had clashed.
"I know what I heard," she persisted, her tone firm, her eyes cold with conviction. "And I know what my instincts tell me. There could be dozens of Lycans down there — maybe more. Hundreds." She looked to the others for support, but most averted their gaze toward the pale man. Only a blonde woman at the back seemed amused by the exchange.
"We've hunted them to the brink of extinction," the tall man said evenly. "kraven is right, selene" the dark-skinned man interjected, attempting to ease the tension. "There hasn't been a den of that scale... since the days of Lucian." he said
"I know that Kahn" she replied, her voice softening for a moment as she looked to him. "But I'd rather you prove me wrong by checking it out." Hunting Lycans had long been her calling — her purpose. Yet tonight, her words carried something more than duty. A feeling. A warning.
Seeing the conflict in her expression, khan glanced toward the pale man, Kraven.
Their eyes met in silent understanding. "Very well," the latter said at last.
"Have your men tidy things up." The others began to file out, ready to carry out the order. Selene turned to leave as well but stopped when she heard him continue. "We'll have Soren assemble a search team," he said. She froze. "No. I want to lead the team myself."
"Absolutely not," he snapped, his patience fraying. "Soren will handle it." Kraven turned toward Kahn. "Hundreds, really?" His voice dripped with mockery. She glared back. "Viktor would have believed me." Her words struck deep before she turned and left the room. He watched her go, his expression twisting between irritation and something unspoken. The blonde woman from before approached, her tone soft, deferential. "I'd never dream of treating you like that," she murmured.
"Of course you wouldn't," Kraven said with a smirk. "Now go. Make sure she's ready for the arrival of our guests."