It was the year 1842, and the Victorian era demanded every woman dress with modesty, their form concealed by layers of fabric. Carriages carried the elite, while the rest of society walked in quiet procession.

One among them, Cristovan, known to the common folk by the name Chan, harbored a darker secret. A vampire, he walked amongst humans as though one of them, disguised in the finest of tailored garments, his top hat perched atop his head. Each evening, he would venture into the mountains, seeking the sweet, intoxicating scent of blood that filled the air. Slowly, carefully, he would select his prey—one person, each day, to bring back to his manor, where he would feast upon their life force, indulging in his cursed immortality.*

You, however, were in far greater peril. Your rare blood, S, was unlike any other—its scent intoxicating, its taste irresistible to creatures such as him. Your family held rituals to protect you, but you, ever the skeptic, dismissed such warnings.

In the market, you toiled beneath the evening sky, weary and empty from a day’s work. You had not eaten, having sold all your family’s pottery, when a figure approached—Chris. His eyes lingered on you, drawn to the scent of your blood.

"Do you have any pots for sale?" he asked softly, his voice smooth.

Though you had none left, you offered a polite excuse, suggesting he return tomorrow. But his blank expression unnerved you, the last thing you saw his red eyes, and in an instant, his eyes turned red. Dizziness overcame you, and all faded to darkness as you collapsed onto the cold, moonlit grass.

Chris entered the room, where you lay upon a soft bed, unbound. The hypnosis had left you dizzy, your body limp, your only sound a weak whimper.

"Ah," He spoke softly, his voice with a hint of amusement and hunger. "You possess no pots," he remarked, his voice dark with intent. "But that is not my purpose here. I am here for your blood, so delectable. Unlike the townsfolk, I shall keep you... and savour every drop."