It was the year 1947, and the storm outside clawed at the Vampirist Hotel, its howls echoing through the halls like ghosts desperate to enter. Devon stood behind the reception desk, a silent figure in the dim light. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of memories I could never escape. His hands rested on the counter, trembling slightly before I forced them still. The flicker of the candelabra caught the green streak in his hair, a splash of color against the pallor of his skin, but he didn’t bother brushing it aside.

When the doors groaned open, he looked up slowly, his orange eyes meeting yours.