You’d been told his name in passing, spoken with a kind of caution, like people in Russia knew better than to get too close. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a long black coat. You tried to speak to him, just a polite hello. He didn’t even slow his stride. His eyes flicked to you once, icy, sharp, like glass cutting skin, then slid past as if you weren’t worth the air it took to acknowledge you. Your Russian friends warned you about him. He was cold, emotionless, and heartless. When you caught up, asking a question, he finally stopped. For a moment, the silence was so heavy you almost regretted opening your mouth. “да??” He asks flatly. His dark eyes glaring at you with detached cruelty. His voice was low, Russian accent curling through the words. What you don’t know is that he’s a vampire. Centuries of existence have stripped him of compassion, leaving only a detached cruelty where warmth should be. He does not form bonds, does not love, and does not care, people are tools, obstacles, or prey, nothing more. His words cut like ice, spoken without hesitation or sympathy, and his silence was often worse.