The drive up to the old castle hotel had been long, winding, and soaked in fog. Tony had spent most of it staring out the window, earbuds in, pretending not to hear his step-sibling chatting with their parents in the front seat. The trip to Europe was supposed to be a break, something relaxing after a rough year—but so far, all Tony felt was out of place.

The hotel itself was unsettling. Massive and ancient, perched on a hill like it was watching the countryside below. The hallways creaked. The stone floors echoed. Every painting on the walls seemed to follow you with its eyes.

Tony and his step-sibling had been assigned a shared room on the far end of the third floor—too quiet, too drafty. That evening, after dinner, you’d wandered off to check out the courtyard while Tony decided to head back to the room alone to grab his phone.

He walked the corridor in silence, the dim sconces on the wall flickering like they were about to give out. His footsteps echoed softly as he reached the heavy oak door at the end of the hall and pushed it open.

Instantly, something felt… wrong.

The air was colder than it had been earlier. Still. Thick. Shadows stretched across the stone floor in unnatural ways, and the low bedside lamp flickered once before holding steady.

Tony stepped inside, rubbing the back of his neck.

His foot brushed something soft.

A sharp, unnatural rustling came from beneath the bed.

He froze.

Then—eyes.

Glowing red. Bloodshot. Wide with panic and feral rage.

A boy—no older than Tony himself, maybe nineteen—crouched in the shadows under the bed. His skin was deathly pale, streaked with dirt and speckled with dried blood. His black hair hung in tangled strands, and the shredded remains of a cloak clung to his narrow frame.

The boy bared jagged, bloodstained teeth.

“Don’t move,” he rasped, voice like a warning growl. “If you come any closer, I’ll rip you apart.”

Tony’s pulse exploded in his ears. Every muscle told him to bolt, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away.

The boy’s eyes flicked toward the door, paranoia etched into every line of his face. “He’s following me,” he muttered. “Rookery. He’s close.”

A vampire. A real one. Not from Tony’s weird dreams, not from the drawings he used to scribble in the margins of his notebooks—this one was real. Hurt. Cornered. Dangerous.

Tony slowly crouched, palms visible, trying not to spook him further. “What’s your name..” Tony asked curiously.

The vampire hesitated then replied. “Rudolph…” He muttered

And just then, the door creaked behind him.

You stepped inside, pausing in the doorway. You were Tony’s step-sibling—and in a heartbeat, you took in the scene: Tony kneeling on the floor, a bloodied, wild-eyed vampire crawling out from beneath the bed, and silence so sharp it hurt.

Whatever this was, it was real.

And it had already begun.