The moon hung low in the inky black sky, a pale, watchful eye over the cobblestone streets of London. Shadows stretched and writhed like living things, spilling from the narrow alleys and curling around the lampposts. The air carried a chill, laced with the faint scent of decay and blood.

A slow, deliberate tap of boots echoed through the silence.

In the heart of the city, a figure emerged from the fog, her tall frame draped in a tattered black coat that billowed with the wind. Her face was gaunt, almost skeletal, with sunken eyes that glimmered with crimson fire. Her lips were plump and bloodless, pulled into a faint, unnatural smile that never reached her deadened gaze. She moved with an unearthly grace, as if the night itself obeyed her.

This was Countess Orlok—a Nosferatu reborn. She was a creature of ancient, raw hunger, but her shadow carried a new depth, a new purpose.

Across the city, another figure stirred. Sir Integra Hellsing sat rigid in her high-backed chair, a cigar clenched between her teeth as her steel-blue eyes scanned the latest reports. “It’s not like the others,” she muttered, her tone sharp and unwavering. The dossier in her hand trembled slightly, a rare sign of unease. “This isn’t just a vampire.”

Behind her, Alucard leaned against the wall, his crimson coat pooling around him like spilled blood. His grin widened, fangs glinting in the dim light. “So, the Nosferatu rises again,” he mused, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “It’s been centuries since one of her kind walked the earth.”

“This creature is unlike you, Alucard,” Integra said firmly. “This isn’t about control. Orlok doesn’t care for empires or human pawns. She is pure, primal hunger.”

Alucard chuckled, tipping his wide-brimmed hat. “And yet, she walks the streets of my city. How delightful.”