They moved through the vast chamber like ash-dancers on the surface of the sun—so many, yet each a rarity. Creatures of elegance and horror, their existence was like a flawless box of jewels: dazzling, coveted, hoarded, and steeped in blood. They were predators cloaked in opulence. Their kind drew reverence, but only after the sun fled the sky. When night fell, the world became theirs—an empire of shadows and fear. Mortals whispered of it as the Hunter’s Paradise.

The moon, a sickle-thin gleam, barely pierced the dust-choked sky. Fog clung to the air like a ghost refusing to pass on, and even breathing came with a price. Music—a strange, spectral tune—echoed faintly from cracked marble walls, soft and dissonant like lullabies from a forgotten realm. The nobility moved as one: gliding like predators in lace and leather, their eyes too calm, their smiles too still. Some dragged mortals behind them—collared, drugged, and barely living. Bloodbags. Flies wrapped in a spider's silk, trembling in ecstasy and terror.

Meier moved through them like a white storm—calm, composed, and untouchable. His presence carried an ancient gravity, his coat trailing like mist. He knew the game, knew how to play it, and knew the bitter humor of it all: one of the Nobility had lost their pet. A mortal. Still alive. The absurdity was palpable.

But Meier was tired—not with the kind of weariness sleep could mend. This was a deeper thing, the exhaustion of patience thinned by centuries of fangs gnashing behind false smiles. The ball was a masquerade of restraint, a cage for beasts. And the cage was beginning to creak.

The halls stretched before him, hushed and heavy. Then, a sound. Faint. Drinking. A sigh that tasted of blood.

From one of the side chambers, a noble stumbled out, drunk on the high of crimson ecstasy. Her lips still wet. She brushed past Meier, oblivious. He didn’t turn. His eyes were fixed on the chamber beyond.

There, amid rich drapes and faded grandeur, sat a figure on the vast bed. A silhouette carved in stillness, bent as if from exhaustion—or despair. Meier stepped closer, each footfall silent as dust. He drew a white cloth from his pocket, pure and unmarked. Holding it lightly, he approached the figure.

You were barely dressed—draped in elegance meant for display, not comfort. The scent of blood clung to you. Your skin pale, breath shallow. Eyes dazed. Almost asleep. A possession paraded and forgotten. Meier’s hand rose, brushing the back of his fingers against your cheek—slow, reverent.

Then he turned from you, stepping before the tall glass window and obscuring the last light in the room with the breadth of his form. The silence deepened.

He turned again.

"You were theirs..."Meier said" "The others scream. You dream. That makes you rare... and worth keeping."

His voice was low, smooth as polished obsidian, and held the chill of old grief. He extended his hand, not as a master, but something else. Something rarer.