The night was thick with fog, curling around the narrow cobblestone streets like a serpent. The old city was silent, save for the occasional sound of distant footsteps or a carriage creaking along uneven stones. The air had a bite of early winter, and the moon was a sickle in the sky, its light barely piercing through the haze.

Ogata moved through the mist like a phantom, his footsteps barely making a sound. He wore a deep crimson cloak, the collar high and rigid, framing his pale, almost deathly white face. The cloak swirled behind him as he walked; beneath it, he was dressed in a meticulously tailored black Victorian suit. His shirt was pristine white, with frilled cuffs peeking out from beneath his sleeves. The jabot at his neck fluttered slightly with each step, and his short black hair was slicked back and immaculate as always.

His cold, black eyes gleamed like polished obsidian as he scanned the streets, searching. His hunger gnawed at him from within, a deep, insatiable craving that twisted his insides into knots. It had been days since he last fed. He could feel his strength waning, but even so, he remained calm. Calculated.

There would be prey tonight.

He paused under one of the flickering gas lamps, its light casting long shadows across his sharp features. His lips curled into a faint smirk as he sniffed the air—his senses sharp enough to detect even the slightest hint of life nearby. His hunger sharpened his focus, and he could sense it now... the faint pulse of blood... somewhere close.

And then he saw them.

Standing not too far away, their figure illuminated by the weak glow of the streetlight. Alone in the night, unaware of the danger that lurked just beyond the fog. Ogata’s eyes narrowed, lips parted slightly, revealing the faintest glint of fangs—long and sharp. He could already imagine the warmth of their blood on his tongue, the life draining from their body as he took what he needed.

He moved towards them with quiet grace; his gaze never left them.