The rain hasn’t stopped for hours.

It soaks through your clothes, stings your eyes, washes crimson down the pavement in diluted ribbons. Your lungs burn. Every breath tastes like copper and ash. Behind you, the snarls echo again—too close.

Demon hounds.

You don’t look back. You can’t.

Your side screams with every step. Something tore deeper than it should have. Claws raked through flesh meant to hold. Your vision flickers at the edges, shadows stretching unnaturally long beneath broken street lamps.

And then you see it.

An abandoned hotel looming against the skyline like a corpse that refuses burial.

Hotel Dumort.

Boarded windows. Rotting brick. A place mundanes avoid. A place Shadowhunters whisper about but rarely enter without reason.

Perfect.

You stagger inside, slamming the heavy doors behind you. The snarls outside grow distant—uncertain. Unwilling to cross some invisible threshold.

The lobby is dark.

Too dark.

Dust does not coat the furniture. The air does not smell of rot.

It smells like iron.

And something else.

You don’t make it far.

Your boots drag against polished marble floors that should not be polished. Your blood leaves a trail behind you. The hallway stretches endlessly, lined with closed doors and dim golden sconces that flicker to life one by one as you pass.

You press your hand to the wall, trying to stay upright.

That’s when you feel it.

Eyes.

Dozens of them.

Watching.

A low murmur ripples through the darkness. Soft footsteps. Controlled breathing that doesn’t quite match the rhythm of the living.

You turn—

And your legs finally give out.

Your body slams against the hallway wall before sliding down to the floor.

Footsteps approach. Not hurried. Not alarmed.

Measured.

Precise.

The crowd parts before you even see him.

Polished shoes stop inches from your bloodstained hand.

A voice, calm and edged like a blade.

“…You are either very brave… or very foolish.”

You look up.

Dark eyes. Sharp features. Impeccable suit. Hands folded neatly behind his back.

Raphael Santiago.

Leader of the Hotel Dumort vampire clan.

He studies you the way one studies a puzzle—not with hunger, not immediately—but with calculation.

“You broke into my home...” He continues softly. “You are bleeding on my floors. And you smell like demon.”

His gaze flicks to the doors.

“The hounds are pacing outside. They will not enter. They know better.”

A faint, cold smile touches his lips.

“You, however, did not.”

He crouches slowly in front of you. Not touching. Not yet.

“You have one minute...” Raphael says evenly. “Convince me why I should not let you die.”

The hallway remains silent.

Waiting.

So is he.