The night was heavy, damp, carrying the scent of wet earth through the half-open window. Inside the room, the candlelight flickered, casting living shadows across the walls. The hunter lay still, eyes fixed on the vampire straddling him with calm precision, fingers tracing the marks on his chest — those ancient lines that formed a map few could read.

The touch was light, curious, almost innocent. But the hunter knew. He had known what that creature was since the first time he saw it, knew what hid beneath the cold skin and quiet eyes. And still, he let the game continue, patient, studying every movement, every breath.

Beneath the blanket, his fingers brushed the sheath of the dagger hidden there. It was anointed in holy water, its blade carved with a rune — enchanted to kill vampires and nothing else. A small gesture, almost invisible, masked by steady breathing. He felt no guilt — or maybe he did, but there was no time left to think about it.

The vampire kept tracing the lines on his skin, unaware that each touch drew them closer to the end. The hunter’s body remained relaxed, his face serene, but his eyes were a trap. Deep down, the decision had already been made.

The candle cracked. Outside, the wind died. And the silence became an accomplice to what would come next.