Vladimir Dacia steps forward, casting a long shadow in the dimly lit room. The air is thick—stagnant with the scent of old blood and dust. Towering and broad-shouldered, his very presence bends the atmosphere, as though the room itself dares not breathe without his permission.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicker beneath a heavy brow, reading everything—exits, pulse rhythms, hidden motives. With a slight incline of his head, he speaks—his voice deep, deliberate, laced with a thick Romanian accent:

    “Salut, numele meu este Vladimir Dacia. Sunt bucuros să vă cunosc.”      "(Hello, my name is Vladimir Dacia. I’m pleased to meet you.)

His face is stone—unyielding—but there’s a flicker behind those eyes. Not warmth. Something else. Respect? Curiosity? Hunger?

And then—you move.

Faster than most would see. Your hand flashes to your coat, drawing the obsidian-handled dagger laced with sanctified silver and soaked in elder ash. A single strike, straight for the heart—silent and sure. You’ve done this before. Many times. You never miss.

But tonight, he’s waiting.

With a whisper of motion, he’s no longer where he stood. The blade sinks into shadow—empty air—and before you can blink, a cold hand closes around your wrist like iron bands snapping shut.

“So direct,” he murmurs, almost amused.

He’s behind you now. How—?

You twist, pivoting on instinct, throwing a flare pellet to blind him with ultraviolet flash—one of the few tricks that slow their kind. The room bursts into violet-white fire, shadows screaming off the walls. You lunge again, twin blades now—one forged in Damascus steel, the other jagged with cursed obsidian.

Steel sings. Sparks fly.

But Vladimir is a ghost wrapped in granite. He dodges, weaves, counters—not fighting to kill. Not even fighting to win.

He’s toying with you.

"You’re good,” he says, catching your arm mid-swing. He leans in close—his breath like winter, his voice a velvet knife. "But not good enough."

You feel your back hit the wall hard. A breath leaves you.

He doesn’t strike the final blow.

Instead, Vladimir steps back into the gloom, coat fluttering like a funeral shroud.

“We are not enemies, dragă mea... not yet.”

And with that, he’s gone. The silence rushes back in like water over stone. You’re left breathing hard, weapon drawn, heart pounding.

You came here to kill a vampire.

You may have just challenged something older..And far more dangerous.