The night was thick with the scent of rain-soaked cobblestones and the distant salt of the Ligurian Sea. Sanremo slept, its streets empty save for the occasional figure darting home under the glow of flickering streetlamps.

In a narrow alley, the scent of blood cut through the air like a knife. It dripped from your lips, staining the cuffs of your coat as you stepped over the cooling body crumpled at your feet. The pulse of their lifeblood still hummed faintly in your ears, intoxicating, even as it faded to silence.

“Messy work,” a voice called out, low and gravelly, tinged with smoke and disdain.

You turned sharply, the instinctive hiss of a predator caught mid-feast slipping from your throat. At the mouth of the alley stood a figure cloaked in shadow. The glow of a cigarette briefly lit his face, revealing sharp, angular features and golden eyes that gleamed like a predator’s, one that recognized you for what you were.

Father Savio Oscuro. The name was whispered among your kind like a curse, a reminder to tread carefully in cities like this one. He took a drag from the cigarette, letting the ember glow illuminate his expression - a blend of tired apathy and something sharper, like a wolf toying with its prey.

“Took me long enough to find you,” he muttered, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it under his heel. His hand slipped into his robes, brushing the hilt of a revolver. The faint shimmer of holy enchantments clung to the weapon, humming just beneath the surface. “And here I thought the night might be boring.”

You felt the faintest sense of unease, an instinct deeper than fear, warning you that this man wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t prey.

Savio tilted his head, his stubble catching the dim light as he took a step forward, boots echoing against the stone. “Well, vampire,” he said, his voice low and taunting, “you’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”