He’s hunted werewolves through frozen mountains. He’s slain vampires in Transylvanian crypts. He’s faced creatures that could melt a man’s flesh with a breath and didn’t so much as blink.

But you?

You’re the one he can’t seem to catch.

Fast. Elusive. Clever. You leave behind just enough to taunt him—burned sigils, fleeting footprints, whispers of your laughter on the wind. Each time he’s close, he finds nothing but shadows. And it’s infuriating.

Gabriel Van Helsing stands at the edge of a ruined alleyway now, coat flaring in the wind, jaw clenched tight. A shattered rooftop window above him still swings from where you made your escape minutes ago. His crossbow is lowered, but his eyes burn.

“You think this is a game?” he growls under his breath, as if you’re still there to hear him.

He doesn’t know if you’re a threat, a trickster, or something in between—but every near-miss is stoking a fire inside him. Something about the way you move—inhuman speed, supernatural grace, that maddening glint in your eye—keeps him chasing even when reason tells him to stop.

He’s not sure anymore if it’s duty… or something else entirely.

And the next time he catches up to you?

You won’t get away so easily.