The morning light had barely begun to pierce through the thick, ghostly mist blanketing London when Adrian stood at the window of his small flat, coat buttoned tight against the chill, fingers clutching the brass pocket watch that once belonged to his father. The metal was warm to the touch—not from his skin, but from the divination he'd performed hours ago. The answer had been subtle, but clear: follow Richards. That single decision had lodged deep in Adrian's bones, unshakable now. The signs were too strong, the whispers too persistent. His instincts—no longer just human—urged him forward. The world had begun to speak in symbols and shadows, and for the first time, Adrian understood its language.
As a carriage rumbled past and the gaslights flickered weakly in the grey dawn, Adrian turned from the window and exhaled slowly. "It's time to stop waiting for the truth to find me," he muttered. "It's time I go looking."
He arrived near the police station just as the streets began to stir. The sky was still the color of old pewter, and a soft drizzle hung in the air like breath on cold glass. The city was waking—newsboys shouting headlines, carriages clattering, footsteps echoing between brick buildings. Adrian took shelter in a modest café across the street from the station, choosing a seat by the fogged window where he could observe without being seen. A cup of tea steamed gently beside him, untouched.
Richards had entered the station not long ago. But Adrian's thoughts were elsewhere. Watching wasn't enough—he needed a way to live his new reality, to act as a Seer without suspicion. That's when it struck him: the perfect mask. In this era, people still believed in the mystical—the spiritualist revival was thriving after the Great War. Psychics, mediums, occultists—they weren't outcasts, they were almost fashionable. If Adrian positioned himself as a fortune-teller, he could explore his Seer abilities in public. Divination, spirit sensing, even subtle ritualistic practices—he could present it all as showmanship.
The idea didn't just make sense; it felt right. Every Seer needed a cover in the mundane world, and this one would also help him digest the potion faster. The more he practiced, the more of its power he would absorb. The role of a psychic wasn't a disguise—it was an anchor.
Evening settled like a blanket of smoke across the rooftops, and Adrian remained at the café, his cup now long cold. Gaslamps blinked on one by one, casting long, amber shadows down the street. At last, a side door to the station creaked open. Richards stepped out alone, his coat collar upturned against the wind, head low. He moved with a purpose—not his usual tired stride, but a calculated urgency. Adrian slipped out and followed, boots soft on the wet cobblestone.
Richards led him through winding streets until they reached a narrow alley choked with trash bins and soot-stained brick. A single gaslight flickered feebly at the entrance. From the darkness, another figure emerged—a large man in a dark overcoat and hat pulled low.
Jones.
Adrian's heart pounded. The infamous mob boss of East London, standing face to face with a police officer. The two men greeted each other with familiarity, speaking in hushed tones. Adrian crept closer, ducking behind a rusted fence, watching through a gap.
"I spoke with the boy," Richards said, glancing back toward the mouth of the alley. "He's thinking of selling the house."
Jones smirked, chewing on a toothpick. "That so? Thought the lad was sentimental."
"Not anymore," Richards replied. "He's… changing."
Adrian stiffened. Why is Richards discussing me with a criminal? What does the house have to do with this?
Before he could spiral further, his attention was yanked away. There was someone else in the alley—someone neither Richards nor Jones acknowledged. A man stood deep in the shadows, unmoving, as if he had been part of the brickwork all along. His presence hit Adrian like a physical force. Wrong. Unnatural. Not human.
Adrian instinctively activated his Spirit Vision—and immediately regretted it.
The man's aura wasn't just twisted—it was fractured, blackened, stitched together with rot and hunger. It pulsed like a decaying star, drawing in the light around him. His soul—if he even had one—was warped beyond recognition. Adrian's Danger Intuition screamed like a warning siren in his skull: If you get closer, you will die.
The figure stepped forward, revealing a handsome face too perfect to be real. His skin was pale as wax, eyes luminous and hollow. From the far corner of the alley, a girl stepped forward as if in a trance. She was young, dressed in a low-cut evening dress, her gaze vacant.
"No—" Adrian whispered, but the scene unfolded before he could move.
The man took her wrist gently, almost reverently, then opened his mouth. Two sharp fangs gleamed in the dim light. With clinical precision, he bit into her skin. She didn't even flinch.
Adrian's breath caught. A vampire. The figure's aura made sense now—ancient, undead, hungry. The stories, the myths—they were real. This thing didn't belong to the world of men, and yet here he was, calmly feeding in a London alley while a police officer and a crime boss discussed selling his father's home.
As the vampire drank, Richards and Jones finished their quiet conversation and shook hands again. The girl slumped against the wall, dazed but alive—for now. The vampire stepped back into the shadows, vanishing like mist into fog.
Adrian remained hidden, heart pounding in his ears. His world had tilted yet again. His father's death, the strange inheritance, Richards' involvement with criminals—and now this. Vampires walked the same streets as men. The city's underworld was more than corruption—it was occult, alive with monsters. And somehow, Adrian was at the center of it all.