Rain slicked the alley like spilled oil, muting the neon glow into long, bleeding streaks of red and blue. Lenora Vale stood beneath a rusted fire escape, the collar of her beige trench coat raised, hat tipped low enough to hide her eyes. Steam hissed from a nearby vent, coiling around her boots like a ghost with bad intentions.

She rolled a glass vial between her fingers, the dark crimson inside catching the streetlight with a soft shimmer. Fresh draw. Two ounces. Enough to make one hell of a distraction.

Across the street, the vampire’s safehouse sat quiet — too quiet. A decayed laundromat on the surface, its “24/7 SERVICE” sign still flickering even though nobody had done laundry there in decades. The air was thick with iron and dust — the faint smell of old blood that only hunters noticed.

Lenora checked her watch. 1:47 a.m. they’d be returning soon.

She knelt, unbuttoned the lower half of her coat, and pulled a compact crossbow from the inner lining. The weapon gleamed dull silver, folding open like the wings of a sleeping bird. From her pocket, she withdrew a bolt and dipped its tip into the vial. A faint hiss rose as the metal drank in her blood. The liquid crawled across the surface, darkening to black.

Her reflection in a rain puddle smiled at her — calm, playful, like she was about to join a poker game instead of a hunt. “Showtime,” she murmured, slotting the bolt with a click.

Footsteps echoed down the street. She straightened instantly. The playful glint in her eyes vanished, replaced by something colder — surgical, precise. The faultline had opened.