The sky above the city was the color of tarnished steel, and the air was thick, heavy, laced with the scent of iron. The square outside the blood collection station pulsed with the muted shuffle of hundreds of feet. People stood in line in silence, eyes fixed on the pavement. No one dared to fidget, let alone speak.

Once a week, every citizen was required to give their quota of blood in exchange for a ration slip. That was the order. That was the rule of the vampires.

You clutched your flimsy paper ticket, feeling your veins prickle under your skin as if they already sensed the cold bite of a needle. Your turn came. The vampire in uniform—a blank-faced automaton—reached for your arm, holding the needle with mechanical precision. His eyes were as empty as the dark windows of the high-rises above.

And then—hands on your shoulders. Warm. Steady. A faint, smoky scent with a sweet trace of blood. You stiffened, glancing up—and froze. A tall figure stood over you, fox-like eyes gleaming with amusement, a wicked smile curling his lips. Two sharp fangs caught the dim light as he drawled lazily.

— “Forgive me, sir. My doll is a bit scatterbrained,” he said with a trace of mockery. “Completely forgot we’ve got… special orders from the Council today.”

He didn’t so much as glance at the guard. He simply plucked the ticket from your hand, tightened his grip on your shoulder, and steered you away like a king parting a sea of pawns. No one dared stop him.

Around the corner, far from the grey building, he finally released you with a soft click of his tongue.

— “Doll,” he murmured, leaning closer, voice velvet-smooth yet edged with danger. “It’s not right to give blood when you’re anemic yourself.”

The name surfaced in your mind at once: Carmine Amati. A scion of the legendary Amati clan—a thief, an aristocrat, a rebel whispered about in alleyways.

— “You know my name?” The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Good. Then come. I have something far more interesting than bread rations and water slips.”