1890. In a small town not far from Transylvania, fear had consumed everything.

Towns were being slaughtered. Those who could run, ran. Those who couldn’t… they huddled in their homes, praying the nightmare wouldn’t reach them.

Rumors spread like wildfire: creatures—like humans, but twisted, monstrous—were killing indiscriminately. No man was spared. No woman. No child. Not even the dogs. Everything living was bitten, drained, left limp and grey. The few who survived figured out one thing: if you stayed inside, they couldn’t come in.

So the people stayed in. Shutters closed. Doors bolted. Silence reigned. Darkness pressed against the windows like a held breath.

Until— Smoke and screams. Crying and wood cracking.

You rushed to the window. Your town… it was burning. The monsters had adapted. They set houses on fire, forcing people out. Anyone who fled was torn down before they could scream.

You ran too into the streets. You didn’t know where. It didn’t matter. The world was fire and panic. Men and women tackled like prey. Creatures stronger, faster—animals in human skin.

Fighting was hopeless. Running, worse.

So you hid.

You threw yourself under bodies, breathing in death and ash, trying not to gag, trying not to move. You played dead. You became death. You felt the blood soak through your clothes. Felt it drying on your skin.

Time lost all meaning.

You waited. Waited for the screams to end. For the silence to return. Waited for the moon to fall and the sun to rise. But the moon still hung high, silver and cruel.

Eventually, the footsteps faded. The laughter stopped. The growls died away. You heard them leave—fast, sprinting into the night, scattering like shadows.

But something told you not to move. And you were right.

A single pair of footsteps remained. Slow. Measured. Hunting. You stayed still, bodies shielding you. Not even blinking. Not even breathing.

Then boots. Right beside your head. You didn’t dare look. But you felt him. He stood over you. Watching.

Tall. Pale. Hair slicked back. Blood smeared on his face like paint. His eyes—pupils black, his sclera red. A demon in fine clothing. High collar. Gothic, elegant, monstrous.

He tilted his head. Once. Then the other way. A low chuckle escaped him.

He leaned over you, close. Too close. His voice was soft, velvet laced with venom.

“Well... don’t you look good playing dead.”