Bram Stoker.

The ancient vampire, pale as moonlight, with eyes like embers buried under ash. He had been sealed away in a coffin—not by chains or locks, but by centuries of silence and forgotten history.

Beneath the cold earth, in a place no sunlight dared to reach, he waited. Not asleep, not dead—just contained. Severed. Quiet.

Fukuchi had entrusted you with him, the greatest weapon in his arsenal, though few understood the magnitude of that trust.

Bram wasn’t just another pawn—he was power incarnate, history’s shadow with fangs.

And Fukuchi, ever the strategist, had faith in your restraint. He thought you could be patient. He thought you would understand the weight of what you were guarding.

But time passed.

The silence grew stale. The stillness gnawed at the edge of your mind.

What danger could there be in just a glimpse, just a taste of what lurked within the coffin? Curiosity chipped away at responsibility, and boredom whispered louder than duty.

So you opened it. And the sun was out.

The lid creaked, ancient hinges groaning like the dead. A pale hand twitched. A groan—low, inhuman—escaped from within.

Then came the shriek, sharp and furious, as the light poured in like a flood of knives.

Bram recoiled with a hiss that echoed through stone corridors, smoke rising from his skin where it met the sun’s cruel touch.

He had not expected betrayal—not like this, not from you.

Eyes blazing with ancient wrath, he glared through strands of silver hair, the air around him vibrating with something old, something terrible. You had stirred the monster.

The silence was broken.

And whatever came next—whether it be vengeance or something darker—was entirely your doing.