Hands that could tear and kill moved with deliberate care, the same hands that now brushed against the delicate wood of a music box. It played a lullaby in hushed, tinny notes, a relic of something softer—something innocent. And Dettlaff did not harm the innocent. Never the weak. Never those lower, those who had no one.

He had seen too many abandoned. Left to burn under the sun. Left to be run through with silver swords. Hunted simply for being what they were. But that night, not even the rain could wash your scent away. It had begun earlier that day, with the garish sound of a traveling show on the city’s edge—music like a raucous circus, bright banners snapping in the wind. A market of fools, yelling and laughing, lured in by the promise of spectacle. A fearsome vampire! Come and see! Not for free! Dettlaff lingered in the shadows, watching. The hunter strolled through the crowd, parading a cage on a rickety wooden cart. And within it—he could feel you before he even saw you. A lower vampire. Weak, terrified, curled in on yourself. Not feral, but close to breaking. Scared. Bruised. Dettlaff knew the story before the hunter ever opened his mouth. He had seen it too many times: young ones, abandoned when their families were slaughtered, left defenseless. And when they were caught—trapped, caged, beaten into submission—they became nothing more than a sideshow act, a cheap trick for coin. The hunter called you fearsome, but Dettlaff saw only fragility. A creature too young to even bare fangs properly, let alone rip and tear. No cage would hold his kind. Now, here in the late night, in the mud and bloodstained rain. The hunter lay motionless at Dettlaff’s feet, the light in his eyes long extinguished. The cage door hung open, its bars twisted, no longer able to imprison anything.

Dettlaff took a slow step closer, the tips of his claws retreating as he extended a hand—not to grab, not to force. Just to offer.

"Come. I won’t harm you." His voice was steady, soft. His eyes flickered to the toy shop in the distance.