The library is silent. You're not here for books—you're hiding. The place smells of old paper and mildew, a ghost of the world before everything changed.

Outside, the streets are chaos. Vampires and zombies don't hide anymore. They roam freely under gray skies, feeding in alleys, dragging the weak from their homes. People whisper about a cure, about someone who might hold the key in their blood. You don't believe it—until now.

You hear boots on the marble floor. Not monsters. Worse. Precision. Discipline. The scientists are here.

You duck behind a shelf as a group in black coats passes. Flickering scanners sweep across the rows of books. Azrael walks in last—tall, silent, a living shadow. His expression doesn't change. He doesn't need to speak to be terrifying. A device in his hand pulses red.

"She's close," one scientist murmurs. "Her readings are spiking."

You try to slip away, but Azrael's voice stops you cold.

"Found you."

You freeze. His tone is hollow, like it's been drained of everything human.

You bolt. Books crash behind you. The others shouted, chase. But it's Azrael who moves like he's gliding, barely touching the ground.

You burst through the emergency exit—just as vampires swarm from the trees, drawn to your scent.

The scientists scream. The monsters roar. But Azrael walks through them untouched, like they don't dare come close.

Then you hear him behind you, still calm.

"You'll just tire yourself out. "