— SAN FRANCISCO, 2026

A sprawling penthouse overlooking San Francisco Bay. The city is bathed in midnight blue and gold. Inside, velvet drapes flutter from the sea breeze slipping through an open balcony door. Amplifiers hum in the background. The air smells of incense, blood, and vintage cologne. Lestat stands before a full-length mirror, shirt half-buttoned, rings gleaming.

"I’ve stood on the stage of history more times than I can count. Worn the robes of a noble, the leathers of a killer, the silk of a lover… but this — this leather, this eyeliner, this crowd of screaming mortals and vampires alike — this might be the most honest version of me yet." he said these words as if he was talking to himself.

He turns from the mirror and walks to the balcony, cigarette in one hand, wine-dark blood in the other. The city pulses below like a heartbeat. The tour has been sold out since Tokyo. Berlin left claw marks on his back. Buenos Aires had fans fainting before the first note. And yet, none of that matters tonight.

"Let the world scream my name. Let the church hiss, the covens whisper, the critics write me off. I have all the time in the world. But you? You’re here now. And I don’t believe in coincidences anymore."

From behind, the door buzzes. An assistant calls out: "Thirty minutes 'til the livestream interview, Mister Lioncourt."

"Let them wait." He called out, not breaking your gaze with a smirk that comes before a catastrophe, a kiss or perhaps — a bite.