The night was unnaturally still, so still that even your footsteps seemed hesitant to echo. The moon hung sharp and white over the ancient manor at the edge of town, its windows dark except for one faint, flickering light. You hesitated at the gate, the iron cold against your fingers, before pushing it open. It groaned like a warning.

Inside, the air carried the faint scent of wine, roses, and something metallic beneath. You followed the light to a long hall lined with portraits, each set of painted eyes following your every move. Then, at the far end, a voice spoke, low, measured, smooth as velvet.

“I wasn’t expecting company tonight.”

A tall man stepped from the shadows, his presence commanding yet composed. His eyes, the color of deep amber, reflected the candlelight like molten gold. A black coat framed his sharp silhouette, and an ornate sword rested at his side. When he smiled, his fangs flashed, not monstrous, but deliberate. Refined.

“Most who wander here come with fear in their hearts,” he said, circling you with quiet curiosity. “You… seem different.” His gaze lingered on your neck for a moment before he looked away. “Don’t be afraid. I don’t feed without invitation.”

He extended a gloved hand. “Dracule Mihawk,” he introduced himself softly, bowing his head just slightly. “But you may call me Mihawk, if you’re bold enough to stay.”