Silence. The kind that stretches into every corner, swallowing even the faintest echo of life. Only the crackling of a lighter breaks through, a flame of rebelion against the stillness. Smoke curls upward, dissipating into the air like remnants of purpose. On the cold, unforgiving floorboards lies a man—motionless, his eyes locked onto the ceiling, unblinking, detached.

A man who believed in happiness, in the fleeting illusion of fulfillment.

Now, he is a shadow of that belief—a man who glimpsed the hollowness of those promises. He once chased what he thought was important, only to watch it slip through his fingers like smoke from his cigarette.

Happiness, he muses, is a trick of light, a fleeting moment we scramble to hold onto, but it is as intangible as the air we breathe. Purpose, once a guiding star, has become a distant echo, a faint memory lost to the void. Now he is here—a body that moves, but a soul that has long since ceased to care, adrift in the numbness of existence.

An empty shell, still clinging to the motions of life, long after its meaning has crumbled away...

Yet, he rises from the planks, his body protesting every movement. His joints creak with the stiffness of days spent unmoving, muscles sore from disuse. His eyes ache painfully as the remnants of daylight pierce through the worn blinds, forcing him to squint. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, but the familiar buzz has long faded, leaving only the bitter taste of ash on his tongue.

The silence is shattered by a sharp knock at the door. The man sighs and stubs out his cigarette in his ashtray, nearly overflowing with ash and cigarettes, and drags himself onto his feet. He stretches, muscles refined under his sun-kissed olive skin. The morning light catches his frame as he stretches—broad shoulders and toned arms, remnants of the body he had once taken pride in. In the cracked mirror, his reflection stares back at him, dark hair tangled and eyes heavy with weariness. A shadow of the man he used to be. He shuffles across the room, nearly slipping on the scattered eviction notices that littered the floor. They had been piling up for weeks, ignored like everything else in his life. Approaching the door, he straightens his back, forcing his body into a semblance of composure. He pulls his shoulders back, a futile attempt to mask the weariness etched deeply in his features, and opens the door.

Mr. Henderson, his landlord, stands in the doorway. Frustration is etched into his features, his posture stiff, but there is a flicker of sympathy in his eyes as he looks over him.

"Styx, you're two months behind on rent. I need you out. I have to provide for my own family," Mr. Henderson says, his voice clipped but not unkind.

The exhausted man takes a deep breath, forcing a tired smile onto his face. His chest tightens with desperation, though he stands tall, trying to keep the façade of calm in place.

"I understand, Mr. Henderson. I've been working for weeks on this article and I know it will thrive. You can come take a look, I promise not to take up too much time."

He steps aside to let Mr. Henderson in, though his movements are slow, almost hesitant. Sunlight filters through the dirty windows, casting weak shadows across the mess—unmade blankets, discarded clothes, and crumpled papers covering every surface.

Mr. Henderson gives him a long, measured look before sighing. "One more day, Xavier. That's it. I can't afford to wait any longer."

"Thank you for your kindness, sir. I'll be sure to-" Without another word, he turns, walks away and slams the door behind him, leaving Xavier standing there.

"...What a moody cunt." he sighs, his faade crumbling as he collapses to the ground.

Xavier sits on the floor, his back against the door, staring blankly at the ceiling. The weight of everything seems to press down on him. He attempts to grab and light a cigarette, but the trembling in his fingers stops him. He grips his hand tightly, and the trembling fades away slowly.

After a few long moments, he drags himself to his desk. Papers, notebooks, and coffee-stained mugs form a chaotic landscape. His laptop sits open, screen dimly glowing with an unfinished article. His fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen in hesitation.

"Who’d even believe in mythological vampires existing among us?" he thinks, his mind full of disbelief as he scans the text once more.

Since ancient times, vampires had been "imagined" by the masses to explain natural phenomena. When corpses looked strange, people wrote it off as the work of mythic creatures like vampires. Science had replaced superstition, and humanity had moved on.

Or had it?

Recently, a string of homicides had caught his attention. Corpses were found completely drained of blood—cases that didn’t add up. The police claimed a serial killer was responsible, but the details gnawed at him. There were no signs of struggle, no defensive wounds. Just bite marks on their necks.

The words "bite marks" glare back at him from the screen, and he leans back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His mind swirls with doubt. It all sounded absurd, like the plot of a cheap horror novel, yet something about the details wouldn’t let him rest.

He pulls up the police reports he had been sent, his eyes scanning over the details once more. The bite marks have been noted in the official documents, but they have been dismissed as the work of some crude, sadistic tool used by the killer. Yet, when he had spoken to the coroner—an old friend from his days covering crime stories—there had been hesitation in his voice.

"These marks... they're too clean, Xavier," the coroner had said over the phone, his voice lowered as if someone might overhear. "Too precise. I've never seen anything like it, not in all my years. It's almost as if... well, I don't know how to explain it."

Xavier exhales slowly, staring at the screen. Too clean. Too precise. It all felt wrong, and his gut wouldn’t let it go. He stares at the police reports on his screen, then at the articles he's written, and finally at the scattered notes on his desk.

Everything pointed to something beyond the realm of the ordinary, yet the rational part of his mind kept trying to pull him back. Vampires don't exist, he reminds himself, but the thought felt hollow in the face of the evidence he has compiled.

"Maybe I'm just too tired right now." He thinks, shaking himself out of it. "I need another smoke, and coffee."

Opening the same door that has been slammed in his face just a little while ago, Xavier is met with the cool autumn breeze, refreshing and crisp against his tired skin. It felt like the first breath of fresh air he's had in days. He takes a moment to savor it, letting the breeze clear his mind, before shuffling down the narrow staircase that creaked with each step.

The old building seems quieter than usual, the silence broken by the soft sound of his footsteps. As he reaches the bottom, the familiar smells of the city—damp concrete, faint traces of food from nearby restaurants, and the ever-present scent of urban life—greets him. The night is alive, but subdued, the streets lit by the dim glow of streetlights and the occasional flicker of a neon sign.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Stepping outside, Xavier pauses, lighting a cigarette with a practiced flick of his lighter. He inhales deeply, feeling the smoke fill his lungs and settle his nerves. The corner store is a place of habit, a small refuge where he could take a moment to collect himself. The walk gave him time to think, to process everything that has happened.

As he approaches the store, its neon sign flickering slightly in the night, Xavier felt a sense of calm settle over him.

"Pleasant night, no?" A gruff voice broke through the silence, pulling Xavier from his thoughts. Xavier recognizes the voice immediately and turns to see an older, white man leaning against the wall next to the store, a cigar smoldering between his fingers.

"Always a pleasure with you, Silva," Xavier replies, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Silva is a fixture in the neighborhood, a retired cop who seems to know everyone's business and has a story for every occasion. He is one of those people who has seen too much, but instead of becoming jaded, he'd embraced a kind of rough wisdom that Xavier has always respected.

Silva takes a deep drag from his cigar, the tip glowing brightly in the dim light. "Out late again, eh," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies Xavier.

Silva chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that carries a hint of knowing. "That's the problem with this city. Too many things that don't let us rest, and not enough time to figure them all out before the next batch of problems arrives." He exhales a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the night air. Xavier nods and decides to share what is on his mind too.

"You ever come across anything you just couldn't explain?" Xavier asks, the question finally being let out of his mind into the cold air.

Silva's expression shifts slightly, a flicker of something passing over his face. He didn't respond immediately, instead taking his time with another drag of his cigar. Finally, he spoke, his voice lower, more serious. "In my line of work, you see a lot of things that don't add up. Some you can brush off, blame it on the job, the stress. But others... well, let's just say there are things in this city that don't fit into neat little boxes."

Xavier's curiosity piqued, but he knew better than to push too hard. "I guess some things are just meant to stay unexplained," Xavier said, a hint of resignation in his voice.

Silva chuckles, blowing smoke into the air. "Something big keeping you up, huh? This city… it drains people, kid. Don’t let it get to you."

Xavier nods, but something stuck to him about these words. He isn't sure if the old man is speaking from experience or if it is just general advice, but either way, it struck a chord. "Thanks, Silva. I'll keep that in mind."

Silva has his usual gruff expression, a mix of world-weariness and quiet observation, as Xavier spoke with him outside the store. The conversation seems to be winding down, and Xavier is about to head inside when a thought struck him. It is something Silva has said earlier, a word that has lodged itself in the back of his mind.

"Silva," Xavier begins, hesitating for a moment before continuing, "you used the word 'drains' back there. An interesting choice, don't you think?"

The old man's face remains neutral, but Xavier notices a subtle shift in his demeanor. Silva takes another drag from his cigar, exhaling the smoke slowly before replying.

"Just a figure of speech, kid," Silva said, his voice steady. "This city has a way of wearing people down. You know that as well as I do."

Xavier nods again, and pushes the thought aside as he steppes into the store, the familiar warmth and scent of coffee washing over him.

Inside, the barwoman greets Xavier with her usual weary smile, and Xavier orders his coffee, trying to shake the strange feeling from the conversation outside. As she pours the steaming liquid into a cup, Xavier's mind wanders back to his investigation, to the strange cases that had brought him to this point. He had been so focused on the details that he hadn't considered how deep he might be getting.

As she poures out the last droplets, Xavier picks up his coffee and pays for it, exchanging a few pleasantries with the barwoman before stepping back out into the cool night air. The breeze has picked up slightly, rustling the leaves and carrying with it the distant hum of the city.

As Xavier is walking home, he decids to take a different route, letting his feet carry him through an underpass he usually avoids. It isn't until he is halfway through that he notices a figure standing in the shadows ahead.

His heart skips a beat until he recognizes the outline—Silva, leaning casually against the wall as if waiting for someone. Xavier's steps slow, a sense of unease creeping back over him. The old man had seemed ready to call it a night, yet here he is, lurking in the shadows like a ghost.

Xavier approaches cautiously, the earlier conversation replaying in his mind. "Silva?" he calls out, his voice echoes slightly in the confined space.

Silva looks up, his expression unreadable as he stepps into the dim light. "Kid," he greets, his voice calm but carrying an edge that Xavier hasn't noticed before.

"You've got a lot on your mind, don't you?"

Xavier looks at the old man, unsure of what to say. There is something different about Silva now, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The old man's earlier warning echoes in his mind.

Before he could respond, Silva moves with unnatural speed, his hand shoots out to grab Xavier by the neck. Xavier barely has time to react as Silva slams him against the cold, rough brick wall, pinning him there with a strength that seems impossible for a man his age.

The coffee cup slips from Xavier's hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud as the liquid splatters across the concrete. His breath caught in his throat as he struggles against Silva's iron grip, his vision blurring around the edges.

"Curiosity's kills the cat, Xavier," Silva said, his voice low and menacing. "I told you to be careful where you poke your nose."

Xavier's heart pounds in his chest as he claws at Silva's arm, trying to free himself. The old man's eyes bore into his, cold and unyielding, and for the first time, Xavier sees something in them that he has never seen before—pure, predatory intent.

Silva continues, his grip tightening. "But if I think you're half as smart as you are, you won't stay quiet, and that's a problem."

Xavier's grip on reality began to slip as Silva's hold tightens around his neck, cutting off his air. The world around him grew dim, sounds muffles, and the cold, damp concrete beneath him felt distant. The last thing he sees before the darkness takes him is Silva's eyes—cold, unfeeling, and entirely predatory.

"Maybe you'll learn to stay quiet in your next life," Silva's voice echoes in his mind as the darkness swallowes him whole.

For a brief moment, everything went black. There is no pain, no fear—just a strange, peaceful void. In this fleeting instant, Xavier finds himself accepting his fate. There is a strange comfort in the thought of letting go, of no longer fighting the weight of his failures, his grief, his exhaustion.

But then, suddenly, he jolts awake.

The first sensation that hits him is the warmth—sticky, wet warmth spreading across his chest. His vision is blurred, but as he blinks and tries to focus, a sickening realization crept in.

He's drenched in blood, his blood. The sticky warmth clung to his clothes, seeping into his skin, and making him shiver despite the heat.

His head spins, but he forces himself to look at his chest. The sight is something out of a nightmare. A sharp, jagged piece of metal—an iron rod—protruded from his chest. Right at the point where his heart should have been, there remains a void. Instead of pain, there is a cold numbness spreading through him, as if his body has already accepted its fate.

He manages to tilt his head to the side, and there she is standing.

Gone was the menacing presence that Silva carried. Only a woman is now standing beside him, her figure bathing in the dim, flickering light of the underpass. Her hair is a shock of pale white, flowing down her shoulders like an avalanche of ice. Her eyes are piercing yellow, glowing with an unnatural intensity that sends a jolt of fear through Xavier's veins.

In her hand, she is holding his heart.

The sight of it made his stomach churn. It's still beating, weakly but steadily, pumping the last vestiges of his life through the arteries that dangles from it like shredded ribbons. Blood dripping from the organ, pooling at her feet, but the woman doesn't seem to notice. She is focused entirely on him, her eyes locking onto his with a chilling, almost detached curiosity.

It is her presence, more than her appearance, that overwhelms Xavier. Something is mesmerizing about her, something that defies explanation. She is holding his life in her hand, quite literally, yet all he could do is feel a sense of nostalgia looking into those eyes.

As Xavier's consciousness waveres, teetering on the edge of oblivion, the woman approaches him and leans in closer, her lips curling into a faint, almost amused smile.

“Curiosity may kill the cat,” she whispers, her voice soft and melodic. “But death is merely the closing of a chapter; what awaits beyond it could be something entirely new.”