Michael and Simon walked through the slums, entering the red-light district of Forest Hill City. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and smoke. This was the part of town where all manner of shady business took place. They approached a weathered wooden house, the paint long faded, the walls sagging as if they carried the weight of many secrets. Simon knocked on the door.

A small wooden window slid open with a creak. Two brown eyes stared back at them through the crack, unblinking. "State your business," came a gravelly voice. "What do you want?"

Simon, feeling a lump rise in his throat, forced himself to steady his voice. "We've got something your boss might find… very lucrative. Information that could benefit all of us."

The man behind the door scoffed, a derisive snort escaping his lips. "Listen well, lads. The boss doesn't tolerate fools or wasted time. And if you think you can come here and play games..." He let the threat hang heavy in the air, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You'll find yourself dead before you even realize what's happening."

Both Simon and Michael shivered, goosebumps prickling their skin. The door creaked open, revealing the man—a fat, greasy figure dressed in nothing but loose trousers and worn slippers. He held a candle in a glass bowl, casting long shadows on the walls.

"Go down the stairs to the last floor. The boss is there " the fat man said in a bored tone, waving them inside.

The fat man turned, eyeing someone nursing a drink nearby. "Oi, you there," he barked, his voice low but commanding. "Get down there and let the boss know he's got visitors. And you two," he pointed Simon and Michael "go with him. Move it."

Simon and Michael exchanged uneasy glances but entered. The house was a den of vice. Thugs—stereotypical brutes with scarred faces and bulging muscles—lounged around, gambling, drinking, or cavorting with women. The smell of cheap liquor and stale smoke hung in the air. Some of the thugs eyed them suspiciously, while others ignored their presence, engrossed in their vices.

As they descended the stairs, the sounds of debauchery faded behind them. Reaching the last floor, they found themselves in a dimly lit room. Sitting in the center, in an almost regal posture, was a man they instinctively knew to be Nightowl.

He sat in an elegant chair, legs crossed, with a half-filled glass of what looked like wine on the table beside him. The thick, dark liquid had the viscosity of blood. Next to the chair, on a king-sized bed, lay a woman, her neck revealing two telltale bite marks. But neither Simon nor Michael noticed these details—they were too nervous, too overwhelmed by the aura of the man before them.

Nightowl rose gracefully and walked over to a lantern, lighting it. The room was suddenly bathed in warm, flickering light, revealing the full picture of the man they had come to meet.

Nightowl was immaculate in appearance. His silver hair was tied back in a short ponytail, and his light golden eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger. His skin was flawless, almost unnaturally smooth, and his sharp, elongated ears hinted at something far more sinister than a mere human. His black suit, paired with polished alligator shoes, made him look every bit the gentleman. But there was something deeply unsettling about his presence—a tension simmered beneath the surface, ready to explode.

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"Please, have a seat," Nightowl said, his voice calm and measured, almost monotone. His demeanor was polite, even charming, but Simon and Michael could sense the hidden danger in every word. Despite their fears, they felt themselves relax slightly, lulled into a false sense of security by Nightowl's outward charm.

Nightowl sat back down, crossing his legs once more, and gestured for them to speak. "I hear you have information for me. It had better be good."

Simon swallowed and tried to steady his voice. "Esteemed sir, may we know the price before we proceed?"

Nightowl's golden eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile remained. "I need to know the goods before I can quote you a price. Surely you understand."

Simon nodded quickly and glanced at Michael, who took the cue to speak. "It's an elf woman... and two half-elf children."

Nightowl's expression turned cold, his sharp features accentuating the gravity of the moment. He leaned forward, his voice calm yet laced with authority. "What are their ages?"

Simon straightened slightly, feeling the weight of the question. "Nine and eight," he replied, his tone subdued.

The transformation in Nightowl was instantaneous. His calm demeanor shattered as he shot to his feet, his eyes widening with an almost manic glee. "Ooooooooooooh yesssssssssssss!" he howled in ecstasy, his voice echoing off the walls. His magical power surged uncontrollably, filling the room with an oppressive, crushing pressure.

The air became so thick with his magic that Simon and Michael collapsed to the ground, trembling violently. Upstairs, the thugs and gamblers fell to their knees as well, groaning under the immense weight of Nightowl's power. It was as though gravity itself had multiplied tenfold, pinning them to the floor. And yet, the woman lying on the bed beside him slept peacefully, utterly unaffected by the storm of magic swirling around her.

Nightowl's face twisted into an expression of pure bliss, his cheeks flushed red with a feverish excitement that made his golden eyes gleam with a predatory hunger. He staggered toward Michael, effortlessly lifting him off the ground by the shoulders. Michael's eyes widened in terror as Nightowl's face loomed closer, their noses nearly touching.

Then, to Michael's horror, Nightowl pressed his lips against his, a grotesque mockery of a kiss that sent a chill of revulsion coursing through him.

Paralyzed by fear, Michael could only watch in horror as Nightowl slowly released him, the oppressive pressure in the room easing as the vampire regained his composure. Nightowl smoothed his suit, the gentlemanly aura he projected slipping back into place as though nothing grotesque had just transpired.

"Apologies for the outburst," Nightowl said, sitting back down with an unsettling calmness. His tone had returned to that cool, measured cadence, but the gleam in his golden eyes betrayed his hunger. "You see, there's nothing I relish more than young half-elf blood. It's a delicacy, you know. Do you have any idea how rare—and valuable—it is in the vampire community?" He smiled, revealing sharp, predatory teeth that glinted like daggers. "I'd die for a sip."

Simon, still trembling and feeling the weight of Nightowl's gaze, forced a weak smile. "That's… good to hear. But what about the female elf?"

Nightowl waved a dismissive hand, as if brushing away a fly. "The elf woman will be sold off. I'll give you 10 gold coins for her and 1,000 platinum coins for the two half-breed brats."

Simon and Michael exchanged stunned glances, disbelief etched across their faces. One thousand platinum coins. That was 100,000 gold coins—an unimaginable fortune, more wealth than they'd ever dreamed of. Even nobles rarely saw that kind of money in a lifetime. Their hearts raced with excitement, and Michael couldn't help but think that his luck had finally turned. He silently congratulated himself for fathering children with Maria, imagining the lavish life he could now afford.

Nightowl leaned forward, his expression shifting to one of predatory seriousness. "Now," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low whisper, "tell me everything you know about the elf and her children." The hunger in his gaze intensified, making it clear that failure to comply was not an option.