In the heart of the city's glittering district, a dimly lit VIP lounge pulsed with decadence. The air was thick with the scent of liquor and the sound of languid laughter, while bass-heavy music rattled the walls. It was the kind of place where reality softened and everything felt like a hazy dream made of velvet and vice.
At the center of it all, lounging lazily on a plush sofa, was a man too beautiful to be entirely human. His features were sharp, his hair sunlit gold and slightly curled, and his eyes—a piercing, unnatural blue—glinted like polished glass under the shifting neon lights. Two women clung to him, whispering things that made him smirk as he swirled amber liquor in his glass.
Then the door slammed open.
The crash silenced the room like a gunshot. Three men in dark overcoats stepped inside, their presence like a cut through silk—harsh, undeniable, and dangerous. The one in front, older, his face etched with hard lines and colder years, let his gaze sweep across the room like a blade. "Everyone else. Out."
No one hesitated after the first stunned breath. Heels clattered, glasses were left half-full, and laughter turned to whispers as the others vanished, like rats escaping a rising tide.
Only the blue-eyed man remained. And the three strangers.
The blue-eyed man didn't bother to straighten up. He lifted his gaze, amusement still dancing in his eyes, and gave his glass a lazy swirl.
"Hunters," he said, voice smooth and dry. "You could've knocked."
The lead man stepped forward, hand already resting on the weapon at his side. "Lysander. Don't waste our time. You know why we're here."
Lysander tilted his head, sipping his drink. "I've always considered myself a model citizen. Surely you're not accusing me of something… vulgar?"
The hunter's voice cut like cold steel. "You know exactly what I mean. The source of the gray-eyed vampires. Start talking."
Lysander's laughter was low, dismissive. "Source? Really? You think I'd dirty my hands with such crude work?" He set his glass down and spread his hands, palms open. "Gentlemen, please. I have standards."
"You're not fooling anyone," the hunter snapped. "We'll find the truth. Come with us. Now."
The amusement in Lysander's expression dimmed. A chill flickered behind his bright eyes. He stood slowly, his tall frame unfolding with lazy elegance. "You'd better be very sure you have the right man. Because if you don't…"
The tension in the room coiled tighter. Fingers inched toward weapons, breath hitched, and the air itself seemed to brace for violence. Lysander, unbothered, walked to the side table and picked up an unopened bottle of red wine. His movements were unhurried, deliberate. He uncorked it and poured himself a glass. The wine swirled like blood under the lights, casting warped reflections on the table's glossy surface.
"This is the most expensive bottle in the place," he said, offering the glass to the nearest hunter. "Care for a drink?"
The hunter's anger flared as he drew a dagger from his waist, its blade etched with intricate sigils that glowed faintly with a golden light. He stepped forward, the point of the blade aimed directly at Lysander's chest. "Don't think we won't make a move."
Lysander didn't flinch. He eyed the dagger, then set his glass down with a faint clink. Hands in his pockets, he leaned casually against the table. "You know what happens if you attack me. It means all-out war. You ready for that?"
Before anyone could respond, the door crashed open again.
Several broad-shouldered men in tailored black suits stormed in. Their footsteps boomed across the floor like war drums. Their faces were grim, but their eyes—those eyes—were monstrous. Black as ink, reflecting no light, and cold enough to chill the blood.
The atmosphere dropped ten degrees in an instant.
"You're playing with fire, Lysander," the lead hunter growled, his dagger gleaming brighter as the sigils pulsed.
Lysander laughed, low and dangerous. "Fire? No, sir. I'm just enjoying a drink. You're the ones kicking down doors and throwing tantrums in my living room."
The standoff froze in place. One wrong breath could shatter it.
Then, from the corridor outside, came the sound of sharp, composed footsteps.
A woman stepped into the room.
She wore a long dark coat over a crisp white blouse, tailored trousers outlining legs trained in discipline, not vanity. Each click of her heels was calm, measured. Her hair was a chestnut bob, her eyes precise and clear.
The hunters stiffened. Even the black-eyed sentinels seemed to hesitate.
Lysander's smirk deepened. He lifted his glass in a mock toast.
"Director Victoria Graves. What an unexpected... pleasure."
When she spoke, the entire room listened.
"That's enough."
The hunters' anger gave way to caution.
"Director," the lead one muttered, still tense. "He's linked to the outbreak. We can't ignore it."
"Perhaps," she said coolly. "But we need evidence, not theater. And Lysander… isn't someone you take lightly."
Lysander raised a brow, sipping again. "See? Told you I'm a law-abiding citizen."
"Shut up," she snapped. Her gaze flicked back to the hunters. "Watch him. But don't provoke him."
There was a beat of silence. Then, reluctantly, the hunters lowered their weapons and withdrew.
Lysander offered the director a small nod and a charming smirk. "How... thoughtful of you, Director Victoria."
"Don't celebrate yet." Her voice could frost glass. "If the evidence points to you—I'll personally see you erased."
Lysander lifted his glass in mock salute. "Then I sincerely hope you investigate thoroughly, madam."
Victoria's gaze cut through the air, sharp as a blade. Her voice was low, steady, but laced with quiet menace. "If it wasn't you, you'd better find the source fast. Otherwise, the trouble coming your way won't be something you can handle alone."
She didn't wait for Lysander's reply. The tails of her trench coat sliced a sharp arc as she turned, her stilettoes striking the floor with metronomic precision—each click fading into the distance like a retreating executioner's drum.
Lysander stood motionless, his face an unreadable mask until the last echo of footsteps died. His gaze swept over the black-suited sentinels still stationed around the lounge. A single flick of his fingers—"Out."
The imposing figures withdrew in flawless synchrony, their departure as clinical as a tactical retreat."
Lysander moved to the sofa with predator's grace, his elongated shadow stretching like a blade across the floor. One hand loosened his collar with studied nonchalance as he sank into the leather, leaning back with the casual arrogance of a king reclaiming his throne.
The air around him seemed to thicken with a silent, suffocating pressure, as if every moment held the potential for an imminent explosion. His blue eyes, deep and inscrutable, resembled an abyss—impossible to grasp, as though they could pierce through anything. A flicker of dangerous light passed through his narrowed gaze, reminiscent of a predator lurking in the depths of the sea, silently brewing an unpredictable, lethal presence.