"You know," Clancy murmured as he picked up one of the syringes, holding it between two fingers like something delicate, "I used to know a guy who made something real similar to this."
Vladimir eyed him suspiciously. "Another alchemist?"
Clancy gave a slow shake of the head, his pale lips twisting into something like a smile. "Nope. Just a drug dealer. Before I got turned."
He turned the syringe in his hand, studying the fluid inside as it caught the dim glow of the alchemical lights, then gently set it back in its slot.
"I doubt my concoction would help you now. Or anything else, for that matter," Vladimir said, with a huff of dry amusement.
"You'd be surprised," Clancy replied, his chuckle rolling out low and broken, a sound that didn't quite fit in a human throat.
Matthew clapped him on the back, the motion casual but heavy. "This freak still pumps more drugs into his veins than a whole city block's worth of junkies." He glanced at Vladimir, adding with a faint smirk, "Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration—but only slight."
Clancy gave a lazy shrug, entirely unbothered.
"Even so, I still think you should dial it back," Alex muttered, arms crossed as he cast a worried glance at Clancy like a tired parent.
"Relax, PI," Clancy said with a dismissive wave. "I don't get the downsides—only the fun parts."
Vladimir cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, yes, riveting conversation. Now... money?"
Matthew raised both brows like he'd nearly forgotten. "Right, right, we got you." He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a thick stack of bills—held together by a single, straining rubber band. "Five grand," he said, placing it in Vladimir's outstretched hand. "All hundreds. That's your standard cut going forward."
Vladimir snatched the stack like a starving man grabbing bread. His fingers flew over the notes, counting with mechanical precision.
"All here," he said with a greedy grin, slipping the bundle into a side drawer before thrusting out his hand. "Pleasure doing business with you."
Matthew shook it, his smile calm and unreadable. "The pleasure's all the boss's, not ours."
Behind them, Alex quietly lifted the black suitcase—now packed with the syringes—and gave it a small shake to test the weight.
"We'll be seeing a lot more of each other, I'm sure," Alex said evenly.
"As long as you're bringing cash," Vladimir said, still grinning, "you can come back as many times as you damn well please."
Matthew let out a soft laugh. "If that's the case, then maybe make this place a little easier to get into."
"Or, I dunno, call before showing up uninvited," Vladimir said with a raised brow. Then his expression shifted, eyes narrowing. "Actually—how did you get in here? That door's under a magical lock."
Clancy jabbed a thumb at Matthew without looking. "He opened it. He's a bit of a mage himself."
Matthew gave a smug little nod. "I dabble," he said. "A little bit blood magic. A little bit of necromancy. Some ritual magician stuff, a few wards. Nothing praise-worthy, but you're all welcome to start applauding if it moves you."
"You're insufferable," Alex muttered, shaking his head as he turned toward the stairs.
Matthew just laughed, his footsteps light as the three vampires moved toward the exit.
"See you next time, Vladimir," Clancy called back as the basement door creaked closed behind them.
Vladimir lingered by the stairwell, listening to the footsteps fade before turning back toward his table. He knew exactly how much money was in the stack—five thousand, crisp hundreds—but that didn't stop him from flipping through it again. There was something intoxicating about the weight, the smell, the rhythm of counting.
"Ah… human greed," he murmured with a crooked smile, the edges of his stained mustache twitching. "Is there anything stronger?"
He chuckled and walked toward the far corner of the basement, where a rusted metal safe was bolted into the cracked foundation wall. The floor creaked under his steps, old boards protesting as he knelt down. He entered the combination with a practiced hand, then pulled a tarnished brass key from around his neck and slid it into the lock. With a soft click, the safe opened.
Inside was a small but telling collection—another thick bundle of cash wrapped in faded bank bands, a few glittering gemstones tucked into a velvet pouch, and a single, creased photograph of a young woman. Vladimir's eyes lingered on the picture just a moment—long enough for a flicker of something unreadable to pass across his face—before he shoved the new stack of bills inside and shut the door. He turned the key, spun the dial, and let out a long breath.
"Now," he muttered, rubbing his lower back as he straightened up, "let's see what trash is on tonight."
He shuffled toward the opposite end of the basement, where a patched-up old couch waited beside a flickering CRT television and a nest of exposed wiring. The air smelled less like chemicals over here and more like dust and damp insulation. He sank into the cushions with a creak, the springs groaning under him, and reached for the duct-taped remote.
Just as his thumb hovered over the power button, the basement door creaked open again.
He froze, eyes narrowing.
A sigh escaped his lips. "Did you three forget something?" he asked without turning. The magical lock was broken, sure—but it hadn't been fixed in the last two minutes. It had to be the same trio.
Then came a voice. Not one of theirs.
"Ooh~ is it safe to assume you're talking about those three vampires we saw exiting the building?"
A woman's voice. Playful. Sing-song. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Vladimir's hand slowly lowered the remote. His body tensed. That voice curled around his spine like icewater. He turned his head—just enough to see them.
There, at the base of the stairs, stood two figures.
Alexa. Smiling like a cat that had found the cornered mouse.
And beside her, Marcus. Silent, stone-faced, lighting a cigarette with the calm of someone who already knew how the next ten minutes would end.
Vladimir's throat bobbed. "Alexa…"
"Good to see you again, Vladimir~" she purred, taking a slow step forward, her heels barely making a sound on the old concrete.
Marcus exhaled a cloud of smoke, the cherry of his cigarette glowing red in the low light. "Now," he said flatly, his eyes locked onto Vladimir's like a steel trap, "let's talk about the shit you've been cooking. And who you've been selling it to."
Vladimir swallowed hard.
He was fucked.