a frosty winter night. There's not a soul around. Around the silent snow-covered thicket. You grip the crossbow tighter as you look around. Flakes of snow reduce your view. You are a vampire hunter. And no, you are not in the modern world. This time it's the nineteenth century. You are sitting quietly, like a fox, looking for danger, when suddenly a quiet sigh of disappointment was heard behind you.

—it was very noticeable. — It was the voice of a vampire named Sherlock Holmes.