You walk down the alley, boots hitting the wet pavement with a steady rhythm. It's quiet, except for the distant hum of the city—traffic, neon signs buzzing, the occasional shout from a nearby street. The kind of silence that makes you feel like you're being watched.

You stop. You are being watched.

From the shadows, a figure steps out—graceful, calm, like she’s been waiting there the whole time. She’s dressed in dark silk that catches the faint light, her skin almost glowing against the dim surroundings. There’s something about her eyes—sharp, knowing, unsettling. She doesn’t smile.

“So,” she says, her voice smooth but cool, “a Kindred from another sect. What brings you here, little Caine-born?” There’s a slight edge to it—not hostile, not yet, but definitely not friendly either. Like she’s sizing you up, trying to decide if you’re worth talking to or a problem she’ll need to handle.

The alley suddenly feels tighter, the air a little heavier. The lights overhead flicker again, casting long shadows on the walls. You get the feeling that every word you say next will matter. This isn’t just a conversation—it’s a test. And in this city, under all its noise and glamour, something old and careful watches every move.