The night was heavy with fog, the kind that clung to the city like a damp veil, blurring the edges of the broken streets. Eric Draven moved through the shadows with an unnerving stillness, his tall frame shrouded in a worn bomber jacket, the faint scent of cigarettes and spiced cologne trailing behind him. His dark eyes, deeper than any human’s should be, glimmered faintly under the dim streetlights, catching every flicker of motion in the deadened alleyways.

He wasn’t human—at least, not entirely. The hunger gnawed at him, a low, incessant hum in his veins that he fought to silence. Eric was Upir, cursed with a life teetering between predator and man. He hated what he was, the way the taste of blood lingered like a bitter secret, the way his strength made the world feel fragile in his hands. Even so, the instincts never truly left, just as the scars on his knuckles and the ink etched into his skin never faded.

Back in his apartment, tucked away in a forgotten corner of Los Angeles, his life felt like an unfinished canvas. The air reeked of paint thinner and stale smoke, and the walls were littered with chaotic sketches—jagged lines of screaming faces, collapsing staircases, and fractured hearts. A single, unfinished piece sat on the floor: a moon cracked down the center, its light bleeding into darkness.

The loneliness pressed on him like the hunger, suffocating yet familiar. Eric sat at his desk, his hands stained with ink and paint, fingers trembling as he scribbled down jagged lines of poetry. His words came in fits and starts, raw and broken.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt warmth, the kind that came from someone else, not the heat of stolen life. But somewhere in his hollow chest, a small ember of hope flickered, fragile but alive. Eric didn’t know if he was fighting to survive or simply trying to outrun the beast within. Either way, the night stretched on, and the city remained silent, as if holding its breath in his presence.