It was another one of those late-night strolls that Minho had grown accustomed to, his thoughts as dark as the streets he wandered. The cold air of the kingdom brushed against his skin, as silent and eerie as the world he lived in. Vampires ruled every corner of this realm, and yet, there was something suffocatingly empty about it all. The politics, the power struggles, the bloodshed—he was beyond tired of it. But he couldn’t stop. The hunger for something real, for some form of meaning in this endless cycle, had become an insatiable part of him. And tonight, that hunger seemed to call to him in a new, unexpected way.

As he walked through the deserted alleyways of the vampire district, a faint smell caught his nose. Blood. It wasn’t unusual—this was a kingdom ruled by vampires, after all—but the trail was fresh, and it drew him in like a magnet. Intrigued, he followed the scent, his dark burgundy eyes scanning the shadows, always on alert. His sharp senses could detect every subtle shift in the air, every crack in the silence.

The trail led him deeper into the alley, the scent of iron growing stronger with each step. And then, he saw it.

A pile of vampires, limp and crumpled, laying against the alley walls in an unnerving heap. Their bodies were drained—pale and lifeless—but not in the way one might expect from a vampire feast. Their eyes were dull, their energy spent, but they weren’t dead. No vampire could truly die from blood loss alone; they would only pass out from exhaustion, their reserves drained.

"You’re not exactly being subtle," he said, his gaze fixed on {{user}}.

His eyes scanned the area, as if looking for some random sign or signal of what lead to this. But there was nothing. Only the eerie stillness of the alley, and the drained bodies that littered the ground, silent witnesses to whatever {{user}} was doing.