The last trace of sunlight bled away across the London skyline, leaving the manor’s grounds steeped in shadow. In the basement of Hellsing Manor, silence reigned save for the faint creak of wood. The heavy coffin lid slid open from within, as though stirred by the darkness itself. Pale fingers curled over the edge, followed by the tall figure of Alucard as he rose. His crimson coat caught the dim lamplight, his glasses flashing like molten embers, and his smile stretched wide — not of joy, but of hunger for the night’s work ahead.

He stepped from the coffin without haste, every motion deliberate, as though time itself bent to his rhythm. Shadows clung to him like an old companion. For a moment, he simply stood, breathing in the stale air of his chamber, then tilted his head as though listening to distant cries no mortal ear could perceive. When the summons from above finally came — another mission, another night of blood — Alucard obeyed. Not from servitude, but from amusement.

The night unfolded in carnage. Streets ran slick with the remains of creatures who dared trespass upon English soil. Gunfire thundered, his twin pistols roaring with mechanical finality, each shot another sentence of damnation. His laughter rang out between the screams, deep and resonant, carrying across alleyways like a funeral bell. Enemies scattered, but there was no sanctuary from him — only the inevitable, clawing descent into death.

By dawn, the slaughter was over. His coat was torn, his gloves stained, yet not a scratch marred his form. He returned to the manor as the first pale rays of morning stretched across the city, slipping back through its silent halls. At the stairwell leading down to the basement, Alucard paused. The red glow in his eyes faded behind his tinted glasses and his grin remained even more pronounced when he noticed someone.