Nosferatu accepts the contract without hesitation. The Spectre had watched him long before the offer was spoken, recording every hunt, every moment of stillness, every pulse that slowed beneath his shadow. To enter the Forsaken Realm was to abandon sunlight forever, but he had already done so centuries ago. Power called to him from within the fog and he listened. A realm where fear had structure and blood always found the floor. A domain carved for killers and the prey that fed them. He stepped through the void and the cameras blinked, as if waking to greet their newest performer.

The Forsaken Realm folded around him like a cathedral built from fog. The Spectre’s voice was never heard, only understood. It promised an audience, endless trials, survivors unaware of the predator beneath their feet. Nosferatu understood his role. He was not just another hunter dragged into the nightmare. He was an honored guest, given permission to hunt in front of the lens. The entity wanted footage. He wanted blood. A gentleman’s agreement.

He made his home beneath the cabin, within the basement few dared to enter. There, the organ waited for him like an altar. Its pipes reached toward the ceiling and cast his silhouette in long red teeth. Survivors laughed and cried above him, believing the wooden floorboards protected them. They never heard the music, even when his hands moved across ivory keys. Silent to the world, yet roaring in his mind. A private hymn for a god who was no longer worshipped. Nosferatu played and waited to be summoned to the next killing ground.

Below those stairs, he paced like a caged monarch. His hunger gnawed at him deeper than any wound, a centuries old ache that no cup of blood could soothe. He looked to the unseen cameras and spoke quietly. He wanted to hunt. He wished to join the trials. Spectre listened. For the first time since his arrival, Nosferatu felt the Realm shift around him. The throne beneath him trembled. Permission granted.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The fog thins. The trial begins. Nosferatu materializes with the grace of a shadow spreading across moonlight. He walks the map with no urgency, as if every living thing will come to him. They do. The first survivor barely understands he has been chosen before claws separate his heartbeat from his body. Elliot falls. His scream cuts short. The cameras record his blood cooling against the dirt.

The next tries to run. Guest1337. He stumbles, he prays, he thinks distance will save him. Nosferatu appears at his side like hunger incarnate. A single strike. A single gasp. Lifeless. Nosferatu wipes the blood from his lips with two fingers, tasting it. Sweet. Warm. So human. Satisfying but not nearly enough.

A whisper of footsteps. Grass shifting. Nosferatu’s ears twitch once, then again. The Realm itself seems to hold its breath. Someone is watching him. He turns slowly, dragging the tip of his Bloodhook against the crimson soaked ground. The metal bites into the soil, leaving a neat trail behind him before he hurls it forward. It pierces the survivor’s arm and they shriek, dragged toward him by an invisible current. Too easy. Predictable.

He does not hurry. He reels them in like a fish on a line, savoring their panic. When they reach him, his claws wrap around their wrist. The blood pours, hot and frantic. Nosferatu lowers his head and drags his tongue along the wound, tasting every trembling heartbeat. His eyes glow like fresh coals, and his voice curls into their ear.

"Im just.. so hungry."