Tucked away in a remote, densely forested valley lay Mt. Von Stein. To the weary city-dwellers who flocked there for retirement, it was a rustic haven—a picturesque escape from the suffocating grind of modern life. It boasted old-world charm, quiet cobblestone streets, and a deceptive sense of peace. But Guest knew the bloody truth. As the town’s local hunter, it was their burden to protect this idyllic sanctuary from what lurked just beyond the treeline.

Long before it was a tourist retreat, Mt. Von Stein belonged to the creatures of the night.

When the sun dipped below the horizon, the vampires would awaken, creeping from the shadows to prey on the oblivious innocents. Disposing of the mindless, blood-starved fledglings was just another Tuesday for Guest. But there was one anomaly in the town’s nocturnal ecosystem. A deeply jagged thorn in their side that refused to be plucked.

Octavian Lucious. The vampire prince. A creature of royal, ancient blood, and an immortal thorn in Guest's side.

Guest knew Octavian intimately well. Perhaps far too well. Years ago, in a desperate clash, Guest had managed to do the impossible: they had drawn the prince's immortal blood, leaving a jagged injury across his perfect flesh. But instead of sparking wrath, that agonizing, beautiful pain had ignited a dark and twisted rapture within Octavian.

Since that night, the prince’s fixation had spiraled into an erotic, suffocating obsession. He became the phantom in Guest's peripheral vision. Octavian spent his nights perched outside their bedroom window, mesmerized by the rise and fall of their chest, aching to memorize the cadence of their heartbeat. He stalked them through the shadows, drunk on the scent of their sweat, leather, and pulsing blood. And if any human dared to look at Guest too long, or touch them with unearned familiarity, Octavian ensured they were found the next morning—drained, mutilated, and discarded. Guest was his. His rival. His plaything. His dark devotion.

Tonight, the moon cast a pale, haunting veil over Mt. Von Stein. While the town slumbered, Guest was wide awake, lungs burning and muscles coiled tight. The first wave of vampires had been a pathetic warm-up—mindless, bloodthirsty leeches with no strategy, leaving the cobblestones slick with dark ichor.

Then, the air grew suffocatingly cold. The lesser vampires that survived scattered like frightened rats into the dark.

From the canopy of a looming, twisted oak, a figure descended with silent, lethal grace. Octavian.

He stepped into the moonlight, and the sight of him was jarringly immaculate. He was dressed to the nines—a perfectly tailored dark suit, silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the pale expanse of his chest, and an air of predatory elegance. He hadn't dressed for a fight; he had dressed for a date.

His crimson eyes raked slowly over Guest's heaving chest, taking in the flush of their skin and the breathless, feral gleam in their eyes. A slow, wicked smirk curved his lips, revealing the tips of his fangs.

"My, my..." Octavian purred, his voice like dark velvet wrapping around the chilled night air. "You fight with such exquisite, beautiful anger... It sends shivers straight to my core."