In the damp, low-ceilinged basement of a crumbling apartment complex, the only illumination came from a scattered mess of softly glowing alchemical equipment—beakers pulsing with iridescent fluid, glyph-inscribed flasks that shimmered faintly with latent enchantment, and tubes wound like intestines between old brass valves and modern chemistry glassware. The air was thick with chemical fumes, the scent of burning ether and metallic blood mixing into something both nauseating and intoxicating.
An old man hunched over a warped oak table, his shoulder-length white hair stained at the ends with residue from countless experiments. His coat—once white—was now a blotchy canvas of burns, ink, and bloodstains. With the steady hands of long habit, he measured out a viscous base compound made primarily of street-grade opiate derivatives, using lab instruments modified with magical components: an enchanted condenser kept the solution at just the right temperature, while a runed stirrer spun the mix in a precisely controlled vortex.
"Stabilizer first," he muttered, voice gravelly from years of inhaling fumes. A small pipette added a thin stream of liquid silver, mercury-bound with elemental fixatives. Then came the real ingredients.
Two glass ampoules—one deep crimson, the other dark-red with a sickly sheen—were unstoppered with ritual care. The crimson was pure vampire blood, carefully preserved and distilled; it laced the compound with extreme physical enhancement properties—speed, strength, resilience. The dark one was werewolf blood, volatile and time-sensitive, acting as an ignition catalyst that sent the drug surging into the system almost instantly after injection.
He poured both in slowly, eyes wide with fascination as the mixture changed color—first marbled purple, then deepened into a luminous, oily green. The mixture hissed faintly as the elements bound.
The old man chuckled to himself as he wiped his gloved hands on his filthy coat, then lifted his steampunk-style goggles—lenses layered with rotating dials and flickering enchantment sigils—to reveal his tired brown eyes.
"Perfect…" he whispered, then reached for the reinforced collection vessel: a sealed glass cartridge lined with arcane seals to prevent degradation. He tipped the batch in with a funnel, watching it slide down with all the reverence of a priest pouring sacrament.
He moved briskly to the next table, where a rack of sterile syringes waited. One by one, he filled them with the glowing concoction, precise and mechanical in his movements. Twenty doses. Clean, pressurized, ready for distribution.
Once the last syringe was capped, he clapped his hands together, grinning wide with yellowed teeth.
"I can already smell the money!"
A sudden creak split the basement's stagnant air—the sound of the door at the top of the stairs swinging open.
Vladimir froze.
*Impossible...* his mind reeled, *there's a ward on that door—a magical lock! No one should be able to—*
Clattering footsteps descended.
Panic surged through him. He snatched a crooked wand off the edge of his worktable—half-charred, with a cracked bone core and dried resin along its length. He spun, pointing it shakily toward the wooden divider that hid the staircase from view. Whoever was coming down, he couldn't see them yet, but he could hear them.
Too much movement. More than one. *Two? Maybe three?*
He squared his stance, wand trembling slightly in his grip. The alchemical gear behind him hissed softly, bubbling with half-finished concoctions as tension coiled tighter in his chest.
Then—footsteps emerged. Figures stepped past the divider.
Vladimir's eyes widened in alarm. "You! What the hell are you doing here?!"
The one in front raised both hands in a calming gesture, voice calm and easy. "Relax, Vladimir. We were just sent to check on you. And pick up the product."
Relief hit like cold water. His shoulders dropped, the wand lowering slightly as breath returned to his lungs. Right. Colleagues—not enemies. Technically, anyway. They worked under the same employer. That counted for something.
The man who'd spoken stood tall, early thirties at a glance, though his posture and presence made him seem far older. He had sharp, elegant features, pale blond hair swept back with precision, and piercing red eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim light. His coat was tailored but functional—dark leather, reinforced at the seams, stylish without sacrificing mobility. There was an old-world weight to him, a noble air from another time—despite the fact that he hadn't even lived a full century.
Matthew Collier.
"You should really take better care of yourself, Vladimir," said the second man, stepping forward with a gentler voice. "And stop being so paranoid."
He was just as tall, red-haired and green-eyed, with a softness to his expression that didn't quite match the predatory cut of his fangs when he smiled. His clothing was sharp but understated—casual slacks, an open-collared shirt, blazer slightly wrinkled at the elbows. He carried himself like someone who spent his time worried about everyone but himself.
Alex Wayne. The empath. A rarity among his kind.
Vladimir's brows were still knotted as he started to ask, "Wait, if you two are here, then shouldn't Cla—"
"Boo."
A voice whispered right next to him.
Vladimir jumped, yelping as he spun and stumbled a step back, nearly knocking over a rack of filled syringes. Standing far too close was the third one—the last of the trio.
Clancy Hall.
Average height, forgettable build, and wearing the kind of streetwear that said invisible by design: a gray hoodie zipped halfway, plain black trousers, scuffed sneakers. But his face…
His face was wrong.
Not monstrous, but undeniably wrong. His skin was smooth, pale, and pulled just a little too tight across his face, giving him a waxy, preserved look—like a mannequin that had been alive once. His features were human, perfectly proportioned, even handsome in theory, but there was something in the stillness of his expression, the glassy sheen of his eyes, that made it hard to keep looking at him for too long. His black hair was neatly combed, his posture relaxed, and he moved like someone completely comfortable in his body. Healthy—unnervingly so—for something that was clearly not human.
Vladimir scowled. "Jesus! Don't sneak up on me looking like that!"
Clancy just chuckled and stepped away, rejoining his companions with an easy shrug.
The three stood together now—Matthew, all grim nobility; Alex, watching like he cared too much; Clancy, practically vibrating with some quiet, unnatural energy.
All younger than a hundred. All unnervingly, very healthy looking—yes, even Clancy, for vampires.
Vladimir's mind returned to what mattered: they were here for the drug. That meant they had his money.
The tension vanished from his posture like smoke blown away by a breeze. He tucked the wand back onto the table and turned to face them with a toothy grin.
"Well then," he said brightly, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get down to business."