December 12th, 2020

New York City, United States of America - Park Avenue, Manhattan

Antheia's Retreat

9:05 P.M.

Antheia's Retreat stood as a beacon of contemporary luxury, a forty-story glass tower in Manhattan's Garment District. This all-suite hotel boasted a variety of spaces, from generic common rooms to fine dining restaurants and champagne bars, spas, and fitness centers, all offering panoramic views of the city, day and night. The hotel was renowned for its tourist appeal, architectural brilliance, and opulent simplicity. For those living in or near Manhattan, finding another place in the city that served higher quality food and drinks would have been a challenge, especially for evening visitors.

Despite being home to hundreds of residents, the hotel harbored an open secret, hidden in plain sight. This secret was the forty-first floor.

Located above the misleadingly-named 'Penthouse' suite, the forty-first floor was concealed from the public through supernatural veils that shielded its existence from both the outside world and the uninitiated within. This floor housed a cocktail lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows instead of walls. A terrace attached to the eastern side of the lounge extended out towards the dark waters of the Hudson River far below. Strings of glowing yellow fairy lights hung between the tops of table umbrellas on the terrace, bathing the quaint décor and lush potted plants in a romantic dimness.

The lounge's interior gave off a unique blend of comfort, dreariness, intimacy, and danger, all combined with a vintage aesthetic of polished cherry hardwood surfaces that warmed every corner. This juxtaposition of emotions created a sensation of unattainable decadence and immutable unease. Low-hanging crystalline chandeliers and flickering candle flames atop mahogany tables added to the exotic atmosphere. In contrast to the room's classic feel, a bar backlit in golden hues spanned the entire length of the northern window, displaying a wide array of exquisite liquor bottles in diverse colors, shapes, and sizes that sparkled under the golden light. Below the bar's countertop was a meticulously organized assortment of high-quality bartending tools: brandy snifters, chrome cocktail shakers, dark wooden cutting boards, stainless steel garnishing implements, and sleek juicers. The seating area featured a selection of plush semi-circular couches, deep-indigo futons, and high-top stools and tables, with most grouped near the windows.

Those lucky few discerning clientele and privy patrons capable of setting foot on the floor referred to the cocktail lounge alone as Winter's Warm.

Yet, to an even more exclusive circle, its true name and purpose were whispered as another word entirely: 'Elysium.'

Among these rare visitors was an early middle-aged man, casually lounging in one of two side-by-side leather chairs by the western window. His left arm rested nonchalantly across the top of the seat. This man, with bright hazel irises and well-groomed, dark-brown hair tapering into a fade above slightly pointed ears, was certainly above-average looking. However, he missed the mark of conventional handsomeness. His cheeks were gaunt, his limbs thinner than average, and his complexion a shade too pale. While he may not have been visually striking, he radiated an intense confidence that complemented the coldly stoic expression carved into his face. But despite that, the man had a way about him. His presence, an unquantifiable blend of social command and charismatic gravitas, was far more intriguing than mere good looks—and twice as dangerous.

His clothes, and much like the man, were of exacting specification to personal taste: simple, yet refined. A plain white button-down dress shirt snugly outlined his frame and was neatly tucked into a pair of pressed navy-blue suit pants. The dress shirt's sleeves were rolled back to mid-forearm and unbuttoned, and the top collar button was left undone, revealing the top of the man's pale, hairless chest and pronounced clavicle. And a caramel-leather belt with a silver buckle cinched his waist, with a pair of tawny-colored leather Oxford dress shoes adorning his feet.

Every aspect of this man radiated the air of a successful, upper-class businessman relaxing after a demanding day.

Yet, appearances can be deceiving, as this man was none other than Percival Walker.

The Camarilla Prince of Manhattan.

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The vast majority of the city sprawled out before him: a grand, pulsating entity—a living organism of concrete and steel, light and shadow. Irregular streets were veins filled with pedestrians, and highways were arteries pulsing with the ceaseless flow of ruby-red taillights. Occasional bridges spanned the dark waters at the city's borders, their rows of lights tracing roads and sidewalks that connected the city's disparate parts, reflections shimmering and dancing below.

Percival silently took in the view. He blinked, then reached for an old cigarette case. It opened with a familiar click, revealing elegant black cigarettes with golden filters that smelled as good as they looked. He selected one, placed it between his lips, and gently closed the case. Next, he pulled out a chrome Zippo from his pocket. With a practiced flick, he ignited it, bringing the small flame to the cigarette. Shielding the flame with his other hand—an old habit—he took a drag, letting the cigarette catch. The lighter went atop the tableside. Puffing deeply, he reclined back in his chair, draping his left arm over the chair's back while crossing his legs. Exhaling softly, he settled in, his eyes drifting across the cityscape.

He lounged and smoked silently. Watching. Waiting.

The ember on the cigarette's end softly glowed with every inhalation, and every exhalation sent smoke swirling and dancing above him. Periodically, his hand moved almost unconsciously, tapping the cigarette over a dark marble ashtray.

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching like taut elastic. Those small eternities were accompanied by silence—not somber or oppressive, but profound.

It was the deep silence of someone who knew, and had done, many things.

It was a lurking silence that sank deep into your bones until you could hear them creak beneath your skin.

It was the silence of an old, immortal being, lost in thought.

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A patterned rapping sounded from the lounge door.

Percival had no reaction.

The door opened quietly with a definitive click, revealing three elegantly dressed figures—two men and a woman. They entered smoothly, one at a time, with the woman leading. The trio paused a respectful distance away, the two men flanking the woman.

The woman's striking beauty was undeniable. Her porcelain skin and high cheekbones set off her scarlet irises and platinum hair cascading to her waist. She looked stunning in a midnight-black V-neck sheath dress and a hip-length jacket. Her black peep-toe stilettos showcased glossy-black toenails, mirroring her manicure. She stood with remarkable confidence, her expression coldly aloof. There was a dangerous glimmer in her eyes as she took in the lounge.

The two men stood firm, shoulders squared and hands clasped behind their backs, unfazed by their guest's intimidating presence. They were dressed in black slim-fit suits paired with white shirts and patterned navy-blue ties—plain compared to their present company. The man on the woman's right stepped forward and, bowing his head, announced in a deep baritone, "Presenting Dzidra Whitelocke, Second Daughter to House Whitelocke."

The announcement hung in the air, met by a strained silence as wisps of sweet-smelling smoke danced lazily above Percival's seat.

Dzidra's eyes narrowed, her lips pursing into a small ruby line.

With a sudden turn on their heels, the two men exited the lounge, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving Dzidra feeling oddly suffocated.

"Welcome," a suave British accent caressed her ears, smooth as liquid silk.

She blinked. Then blinked again.

"Come." Percival motioned to the dark brown leather chair beside his own. A smoldering black cigarette casually hung from his fingers, leaving a thin trail of smoke in the air.

Dzidra paused to gather herself, then silently stalked through the lounge. Her crimson irises scanned every detail of the Prince's elusive Elysium, each element deepening her intrigue about his agreement to the meeting. Reaching the chair, she paused gracefully before sitting, knees together as she smoothed her dress and crossed her ankles, angling them toward the Prince and resting her hands in her lap.

A small wooden table between them held four items: a silver cigarette case, an ashtray, a glass bottle of honey-colored liquid, and a candle flickering in a gothic holder.

Dzidra's covert scan of the room halted as her gaze was drawn to the nighttime skyline of New York City visible beyond the windows.

It was a stunning panorama; skyscrapers stood like imposing monoliths against the horizon, towering over the myriad of smaller buildings packed into every crevice. These lesser structures seemed like underbrush in the shadow of towering redwoods. The city was a seemingly endless tapestry of shimmering multi-colored lights, some clusters so intense they unleashed a radiant corona spilling into the night sky. A nearly full moon graced the night with its serene, otherworldly presence.

Dzidra's head cocked to the side as she silently watched. From this angle, the moon looked like it hung over the city like a guillotine.

Transfixed, her eyes hungrily studied every facet of the view. Her pupils dilated, and her irises took on a faintly ethereal glow. The longer she looked, the more her natural beauty was amplified.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Warm ash drifted down to the ashtray, joining the growing pile already forming.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Percival said.

Dzidra's eye twitched.

"Mm. You know," he softly trailed off, taking a sharp drag of the cigarette. "I come here often. When I need to think." Smoke curled between his lips as he spoke softly and deliberately. "And in that time, I have found that it is here, and only here... where I can truly relax. Do you know why that is?"

Dzidra's intellect fought against the compulsion, seeking to capitalize on the conversational opening. However, her struggle worsened as a subtle headache began to pulse in her temples.

"Because—" He cleared his throat. "... I sure as hell don't." He scoffed, shaking his head dismissively and bringing the cigarette to his lips. "Ha, right," he muttered, tilting his head back and exhaling a stream of smoke. Then, he puffed out his cheeks and sighed. Glancing at Dzidra, he noticed her dilemma and averted his eyes. The cigarette's tip glowed like embers as he took a deep drag. He held the smoke for quite some time before releasing it. "Funny, isn't it?" he eventually spoke. "Me, I mean." He mused aloud. "Up here, all alone—the first chance I can find. Surrounded by money. Wanting for nothing. The near-pinnacle of Kindred power and politics." His voice took on a faintly mocking tone, a flicker of something deeper flashing in his eyes, only to vanish. "And yet, here I am... deeply unhappy." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. With a click of his tongue and a resigned sigh, he took a final drag before resting his arm on the armrest. "Sardonic as it may be, personally, I find my situation quite amusing. Don't you?"

'I understand—let me help; we can help each other!' Dzidra's consciousness cried out within her mind. But her thoughts were once more consumed with the view of colorful, swirling eddies of light, movement, and sheer scale beyond the window.

The room fell into an oddly companionable silence laced with a veil of melancholy.

Percival smoked and watched the city with a distant gaze.

Dzidra fought a losing battle against her Clan's blood compulsion.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound she couldn't make sense of at first. She managed to tilt her head enough to catch a general idea of what had happened.

The smell of cigarette smoke and burnt carpet assailed her nose. Then movement: the Prince holding his right arm by the wrist with his left hand. The right arm was shaking, its fingers twisting awkwardly before sliding back into place with a hair-raising, bone-on-bone sound.

'Oh, God... What...' Horror and confusion mounted in Dzidra as she struggled to comprehend what she was seeing.

Then, like a fancy magic trick, the Prince's hand appeared completely normal. The lingering scent of tobacco ash and singed carpet fibers convinced her she wasn't hallucinating.

Percival shifted in his seat to the sound of creaking leather. He cleared his throat. "Mm. Please excuse my conduct; that was... unbecoming. Rude, even," Percival spoke, a hard edge beneath his tone.

The jarring nature of the situation was enough of an emotional rollercoaster that Dzidra regained some of her faculties. 'Okay, so he's insane. Perfect. Wonderful.' Then, another thought—more painful than she would ever admit: 'But you need him.'

It stung. The truth often did.

"In any case..." Percival settled back into his chair with a sigh bordering on a groan. "This is one of those times when I have to remind myself to live in the moment, instead of dwelling in the past." His tone evened out with every word. "Because here I am in the lap of luxury, smoking and drinking to my cold, dead heart's content in the company of the most infamous royal beauty on the eastern coast. And yet, I have made a remarkable fool of myself, allowing my... condition to make itself known." He hissed the word as if it were dirty. Filthy. "But worst of all?" He snapped his fingers. "It was because I brought up the past. The past has no place in the present, as far as I am concerned. Well, maybe except in the odd book, of course. But who reads anymore?" He flashed the beginnings of a charming smile that died before it could fully form.

Dzidra was mortified that she still couldn't respond, and once more found herself cursing her own blood as some vague semblance of her former consciousness battled within the confines of her own mind. For all the wonders and excess her immortality allowed her to indulge in, the time to pay the price was often abrupt and doubly punishing.

Despite Dzidra's skyrocketing anxiety, the Prince took the reins of the conversation, trying to hand them off without showing outright annoyance at her inability to function as one of noble blood. It was baffling to her. Again, in a brief moment of clarity, she wondered why the Prince had even bothered accepting the terms of their meeting. Then, she was gone again.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of entertaining the Second Daughter of House Whitelocke?" Percival asked, crossing one knee over the other. Then, his body blurred into motion, appearing like a series of semi-transparent after-images. The next second, he was still seated as he was but with a fresh, smoldering cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. He placed the Zippo back onto the table.

The remains of the cigarette he'd dropped to the floor were gone, but a small scorch mark remained in the carpet.

The corner of Dzidra's mouth twitched once. Twice.

Percival hummed under his breath, inhaling thin streams of smoke through his nose. "Hah. Well. I'd wager you're not just here for the view..." He mused, cocking an eyebrow. He then, again, took note of her appearance. "...Though I may very well lose that bet." He muttered. "Ensnared you, huh? Poor thing," he decided with a shrug. "In any event, I will seize this opportunity to be candid with you." He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and leaned back into his chair, placing his elbows on the armrests. "I would not be who or where I am today if I were a man devoid of empathy or feeling. Yes? So, I sincerely commiserate with your situation. I can only envision the challenges you and your family must be facing. But, with that said..." His hazel eyes flicked to Dzidra and stayed there.

"The Camarilla is my family, Ms. Whitelocke," Percival declared, his usual suave and carefree tone now laced with a venomous chill, devoid of any semblance of formality or pretense.

A palpable coldness seized the room.

Dzidra's skin bristled, her instincts screaming in frantic terror. Yet, immobilized, she could only endure the Prince's gradual unveiling of his formidable Presence. This side of him, so starkly contrasted with his usual demeanor, was profoundly unsettling.

"It will be a cold day in the pits of hell before I allow the likes of you, anyone, or anything..." His eyes, previously composed, now burned with a bloodshot fury, his irises igniting into a maroon glow amidst the encroaching gloom. Dark veins, like sinister tendrils, crept visibly up his neck.

"To jeopardize..." The shadows around them sharpened, as if gaining a life of their own.

"Harm..." The flames of the surrounding candles flickered and waned, reduced to mere whispers of light.

"Or manipulate it." The chandeliers above trembled, as if caught in an invisible gale. With each word, the pressure in the room mounted until Dzidra's innate impulse to resist danger was overwhelmed, her blood compulsion relinquishing its grasp on her psyche. The throbbing headache at her temples graduated into a full-blown migraine.

She almost wished it hadn't, as now in control of her mind and body, she felt the Prince's smoldering gaze boring holes through her soul more than ever.

"Do we have an understanding?"

Dzidra, now trembling, knew there was but one acceptable response.

"Yes, Prince Walker," she managed.

The Prince's gaze, seemingly sharp enough to discern the truth from falsehood, lingered on Dzidra. He silently considered her words. Finally, the oppressive atmosphere began to lift, easing the weight upon her shoulders.

Percival's demeanor softened. "Mm. Grand." The sinister veins retreated back beneath the shadows of his collar, and the color of carnage and hell faded from his eyes, allowing them to revert to their usual gentle hazel.

The shadows receded; the candles regained their lively dance.

The chandeliers stilled their ominous swaying.

Dzidra exhaled a thin whisper of relief as the Prince's Presence dissolved into nothingness.

"Apologies, Ms. Whitelocke. I felt a demonstration was necessary. Egotistical as it may be. But necessary nonetheless." He brought the cigarette back to his lips and smoked with a pondering expression.

"Oh, do relax, my dear. I'm not upset with you. Believe me, you would most certainly know if I were displeased." He exhaled smoke with a cocky half-smile. "Then again, most people who displease me simply disappear without ever knowing who, what, where, or why. It's funny, sometimes. Their faces, I mean. Cracks me up when I'm feeling rather blue."

A chill ran down Dzidra's spine. She couldn't believe she was here. What had she been thinking?

"Now that we've dealt with that unpleasantness, what is it that you'd like to discuss?"

Dzidra mentally regrouped and composed herself. She was here now. It was time. With a clear course set in her mind, she opened her mouth.

"And," the Prince interrupted her, raising a finger, "please bear in mind that we may be under a time constraint, so be brief, if possible."

'Time constraint? Potentially?' Dzidra wondered, noting the question to consider later. For now, she remained focused on the reason for requesting the meeting. It was the only card she had left to play. She hoped it was enough. It had to be.

"I wish to offer my services as an advisor," Dzidra stated confidently, sitting up straight and meeting Walker's gaze.

"Mm," Walker replied, taking a drag of his cigarette. "And people in hell want ice water," he said dryly.

Dzidra's confidence wavered slightly. "I believe I'd be valuable to your Court," she added, trying to steady her voice.

Percival chuckled and tapped ash into a tray. He briefly held the cigarette in his mouth, adjusting his sleeves. Then, refocusing on Dzidra, he said, "Interesting, Ms. Whitelocke. I once sought favor in a Court too." He paused. "Alright, fine. You've caught my attention. Well, frankly, it's more out of boredom. Gav can be insufferably dull!" He shared a mock whisper, glancing over the back of his seat.

'What…?' Dzidra was taken aback by the Prince’s suddenly informal and peculiar conduct. Maybe it was the condition he'd mentioned earlier? Despite her racing thoughts, she managed to maintain a professional expression.

"Alright, let's hear it then," the Prince said, casually crossing his legs.

Dzidra quickly responded, "I have unique and exceptional skills in gathering intelligence and sabotage."

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? An... interesting resume, that." He remarked, tapping his cigarette towards her.

"I also have access to Whitelocke resources," Dzidra added carefully.

"Because I appear to be in desperate need of money?" he asked innocently.

Dzidra backpedaled like her life depended on it. Which it did. "No, Prince Walker! I would never, ever insinuate that; I'm only attempting to—"

"I never thought I'd see the day... someone vying with Gav for my attention. What a predicament." The Prince shook his head, feigning dismay.

Dzidra changed her angle. "You're at war, Prince."

The Prince tsked and waved his hand dismissively. "It's no secret that I have many enemies."

"With Matthias Sever," she pressed on.

The barest flicker of surprise in the Prince's eyes told her she'd finally brought something of interest to the table. His following words only confirmed it and allayed the majority of her concerns.

"Well, now..." the Prince drawled and stubbed out his cigarette. "That is interesting. Now, how is it exactly that you came to such a peculiar notion?"

"As I said, Prince Walker, my expertise lies in espionage and intelligence," Dzidra spoke confidently.

The Prince took a deep breath and sighed through his nose.

*Oh, wow. He's stressed about something.* The thought was profoundly disturbing for some reason.

The Prince slowly and silently retrieved another cigarette, lit it, and rested his arm on the armrest. His eyes were distant as he looked out over the city.

Dzidra joined him in the silence. It was almost oddly comforting now that she knew she'd gotten his interest. There was a non-zero chance of her actually succeeding now! All she had to do was figure out what could be making the Prince take her offer seriously. His interest alone was now the biggest indicator to her that something wasn't all well in the Kingdom of Walker.

Eventually, the Prince gave a slow nod, the city lights playing across his face. "Very well, you have my attention. You may explain yourself." He conceded and reclined further back into his chair. The cigarette remained untouched in his hand. Bits of ash fell to the carpet.

"Prince Walker, the linchpin of my offering, and the true reason for our meeting this evening under strict terms, is because what I have to say cannot, under any circumstances, leave this room. Are we in agreement?" She asked evenly, not daring to add any inflection to the question for fear of insulting him any more than the question itself already had.

"...Bold. Hmph. Go on then, girl. Speak." He brought the cigarette to his lips and smoked.

Dzidra bowed her head while staying seated. "I do not deserve such benevolence and patience, Prince Walker. I thank you." She raised her head and, without further ado, dove into her practiced speech, presenting the full scope of her ambitions. "In my possession is a unique blend of my bloodline's legacy and modern innovation," Dzidra began, her voice carrying a tone of solemn revelation. "My father, as you may know, is a dedicated biochemist and scientist. What you may not know, however, is that he has recently developed something incredible through sheer coincidence and experimentation. By combining elements of my blood with obscure principles of thin-blood alchemy, modern scientific methodologies, and the practical application of hexes, he has created a tincture."

"... A tincture," the Prince spoke flatly.

"Yes, Prince Walker. When taken intravenously, it will strongly compel most to reveal their deepest secrets. The effect grows stronger with multiple applications on the same individual."

"...I see."

Dzidra paused after the Prince spoke, ensuring the gravity of her words and the Prince's own thoughts settled. Then, she threw in the kicker.

"However, there is a crucial element to its efficacy."

The Prince smirked grimly. "Oh, is there now?"

Dzidra bowed her head again. "Yes, Prince Walker. I must be physically present during its use. My Presence activates the hexes within the serum. Combined with my natural aptitude for espionage and intelligence gathering, this forms the basis of the relations I extend to you with only the best of intentions." She raised her head. "This isn’t just a tool for interrogation; it’s the next step in the evolution of our kind, according to my father. With this and myself at your disposal, along with my unique skills, you'll have a significant advantage against Matthias Sever."

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Walker leaned back, exhaling smoke thoughtfully. Then, he gave a low chuckle and shook his head. "Well played, Ms. Whitelocke. Well played. You certainly did your homework. Admirable, if not also foolish. Do you even know what you're asking? You want to leave the kitty pool of the streets and jump headfirst into the middle of the Atlantic? You want to swim with the sharks in the deep, open waters, Ms. Whitelocke?" He stared straight at her.

A shiver ran down her back again, but this time, she boldly held his gaze. She could tell he was testing her resolve. How could she expect to survive what was really out there when she couldn't even meet her boss's eyes?

The Prince and she stared at one another for almost ten whole seconds before he looked away with a thin smirk.

"Fine. You have my attention." He took another drag. "Tell me everything—and I do mean everything—you know of Matthias. Then maybe, perhaps, I will consider the full extent of your offer."

Dzidra would have jumped with joy if it wouldn't mean her heart being staked, her corpse beheaded, and her remains dumped in the nearest available furnace. The thought sobered her instantly, washing away whatever feelings of success she felt were merited for not yet being guided to her Final Death.

Rather than allowing herself to be swallowed up by the deep well of anxiety waiting just around the corner, Dzidra carefully smoothed out her dress and gathered her thoughts.

"As you say, Prince. Allow me a moment, please."

She received a nod in return, for which she was grateful. She did not like it. But that wouldn't stop her.

"Some context," she started. "Matthias Sever, also known as 'The Baron,' is a Clan Brujah Anarch known for his exceptional intelligence. However, his impulsive nature often clashes with his wisdom. While this makes him somewhat predictable, it also makes him more dangerous. He exploits his enemies' expectations of his weakness and responds with disturbing ease, as evidenced by his recent attack on Pictou Island off the coast of Nova Scotia. Reports indicate that approximately two weeks ago, The Baron led a small siege on the island to eliminate over two dozen rogue Tremere who had been using the isolated land to perform blood rituals and re-establish their Order."

"Yes, well, that's nothing new, now is it?" said the Prince, pursing his lips. "Matthias likely felt threatened by their presence in his backyard."

Dzidra inwardly rejoiced at his engaged response.

"Quite likely," she agreed, shifting slightly in her seat. "There is little known information on The Baron's origins, but rumors indicate that he was embraced in Bohemia during the Hussite Wars. Since arriving in North America, he's built an empire focused on trading blood, drugs, arms, and other contraband anywhere between Alberta and Newfoundland. What's interesting, however, is that his business has always remained strictly within Canada's borders. Until recently."

The Prince stayed still and silent, looking out at the city.

Dzidra continued, "The issue is, one of his networks in Cornwall has begun moving illegal firearm attachments into Massena. This is happening without your permission, Prince Walker. I know this because I have discreetly obtained official paperwork from a filing clerk who owed me a favor. It showed me Baron Sever had instructed his followers to create an LLC documented under a different parent company rather than tying themselves directly under one owned and sanctioned by you. It's a clear sign to me that they're either playing a deeper game under your own or someone else's orders. Or, more plausibly, that they are trying to hide something right under your nose."

The Prince slowly blinked, then turned to take Dzidra in as though seeing her for the first time since she'd walked into the room. A glimmer of amusement danced in his eyes, then he turned back in his seat. "Well said," he gently praised, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Well said, indeed. Tell me then, why do you think I'm at war with this man? He may have overstepped, but it's nothing Rebecca or Tiffany couldn't solve with a blank check, the company car, and my permission."

Dzidra breathed a sigh of relief inside, mentally shelving the immediate questions she had about those two names. Instead, she pressed on, hoping against hope that she could achieve the impossible. "Not entirely, Prince. My deduction about your war with Sever was based on the latest intelligence reports spanning the past two years, focusing on the most relevant factions and key figures."

"Homework, indeed. Well, fine, Ms. Whitelocke. You have done the unthinkable and gained half of my attention. Use it wisely, and tell me about these others."

"Beatrice Serche." Dzidra practically dove into everything she remembered when preparing for this meeting. "She's the latest Sabbat Archbishop, also known as 'Archangel.' She's an apathetic and ruthless woman who's currently galvanizing a Second Inquisition crusade across the western seaboard, with a focus on the Los Angeles and Seattle Kindred strongholds."

"Archangel?" The Prince softly murmured with a hint of rhetorical indifference.

"Yes. Serche's motif involves annihilating suspected Kindred hideouts with military-grade incendiary explosive devices," Dzidra stated, her lips unconsciously curling in distaste. "According to reports, she views high-profile public structures such as libraries, hotels, community centers, and even bars as acceptable collateral damage. Anyone, including mortals, occupying these spaces is treated similarly." As she spoke, her tone grew increasingly somber, her dissatisfaction palpable.

The Prince's reaction was no different—deep disappointment flickered in his eyes upon hearing the news, and something ominous seemed to lurk behind his gaze.

"I must add that her greatest weakness is isolation," Dzidra revealed, hoping to provide some solace. "Given that she is new to her position, she may not have many trusted advisors. As a result, her subordinates may turn against her, so the situation could ameliorate itself without requiring the Prince of Seattle's intervention."

The Prince's demeanor seemed to lighten at Dzidra's assessment. "Let's hope it plays out that way," he remarked, casually placing his forearm on the armrest and taking another drag of his cigarette, exhaling fragrant smoke through his nostrils. He cast a sidelong glance at Dzidra. "Do go on," he prompted.

"Penelope Hill," Dzidra proceeded with her explanation, trying to ignore the smell of cigarette smoke permeating the lounge, "-although you may know her as 'The Sanguine Alchemist.'"

"Ah, The List," the Prince mused, absently tapping ashes into the tray, his hazel eyes taking on a glazed quality.

Dzidra nodded. "Yes, Penelope Hill is ranked fourth on The List. She possesses an inordinate potential for destruction should her motivations align against the Camarilla."

"Who's on assignment?" The Prince asked abruptly.

Dzidra blinked, taken aback by the sudden question. She considered lying but quickly discarded the notion and gathered her thoughts. "The Baroness has enlisted the aid of Hubrecht Jonas, Prince Walker," she answered, her voice tense.

The Prince let out a humorless chuckle. "The Eighth Sin? Why am I not surprised?" he muttered, shaking his head. He motioned for Dzidra to continue.

Dzidra lightly cleared her throat. "Through various sources and disparate rumors, there seems to be a consensus that 'The Sanguine Alchemist' was Embraced by a member of Clan Ravnos. This is mostly speculation, as she frequently travels and appears in different hotspots. According to the latest sighting, reported roughly fifty-three hours ago, an eyewitness claimed to have seen her feeding on wildlife."

"Plausible," replied the Prince, placing his cigarette in the ashtray and pulling out another from the case.

"My thoughts exactly," remarked Dzidra. "Additionally, the witness claims that Penelope was seen traversing through the Allegheny National Forest."

After striking the Zippo, the Prince ignited the tip of his cigarette, taking a few puffs before closing the lighter and reclining back in his chair. "Do we have a trail?" he inquired.

"Regrettably, we do," confirmed Dzidra. "One of our informants with the Sheffield police precinct earmarked the report in his monthly data transfer. Two park rangers' mutilated bodies were found southwest of Cherry Grove with lacerated throats, torn clothes, and severe blood loss."

The Prince nodded thoughtfully. "Right... send the files once we're finished. We'll need to establish a thorough cover."

"Consider it done, Prince," she declared solemnly. Not receiving any further cues from the silent Prince, she proceeded to finish her dossier on 'The Sanguine Alchemist.'

"Penelope's trail suggests that she might be headed toward Cleveland, but she could also easily find a safe hideout anywhere between Edinboro and Pittsburgh. Alternatively, she may choose to go to Columbus and then onto Cincinnati, rather than following the expected route of circling Lake Erie and heading toward Detroit," explained Dzidra, shaking her head in frustration. "Unfortunately, we simply don't have any prior knowledge or patterns to make an accurate assessment of her movements."

"Why Detroit?" asked the Prince.

Dzidra shrugged. "Our assumption was that she would scavenge at the Midtown DMC, a well-known gathering spot for the local Cainites."

Raising an eyebrow, the Prince glanced over at Dzidra.

Dzidra sat up straighter under the Prince's scrutinizing gaze. "Hunting in heavily regulated cities can be quite challenging. The Midtown DMC provides blood bags to those who are starving or can't hunt safely. I've heard that the Hecata are frequent patrons," clarified Dzidra.

"I see," nodded the Prince. "Well done. Continue monitoring her from a distance and ensure you maintain a detailed log and analysis of her activities." He tilted his head and muttered to himself, "Perhaps...?" while taking another puff of his cigarette, his expression deep in thought. "Yes. Yes, that could work perfectly," he mumbled before shifting his focus back to Dzidra. "I have a trustworthy operative stationed in Allentown. My advisor will put you in touch with him. You'll meet with him, work out a plan, and execute it successfully. Now then," he leaned back in his chair, "-who's next?"

Dzidra had barely processed being assigned a mission by the Prince when the conversation swiftly moved forward. "Um, well, there's also George Knight. He's an abnormally eccentric Malkavian and known Sabbat sympathizer," Dzidra's voice grew more confident as she caught up with the flow of the conversation, now more assured than ever of her place in Prince Walker's Court. "Additionally," she continued, "-he's also been sanctioned with a Blood Hunt for multiple incidents of diablerie."

"Ah, yes. I recall..." the Prince flicked ash into the tray, "...a narrow-minded, deluded fool believing himself to be the chosen prophet of Caine."

"Just so," Dzidra affirmed, adjusting herself on the edge of her chair before settling into a more relaxed and comfortable position. "Fortunately, the Sabbat has not formally endorsed his message, and based on his past behavior, we have no reason to believe they will do so. While he may cause damage to property and disturb the locals, he poses no real threat beyond the possibility of a minor Masquerade breach. He and his group of mindless henchmen and fanatics are more preoccupied with securing a steady supply of blood than engaging in a full-blown war."

"Have we determined where he's searching?" inquired the Prince.

"More or less," replied Dzidra. "There have been reports of break-ins at the Southern Blood Center and the Archytas Blood Bank. Interestingly, none of the staff members have been reported missing or killed."

"He's scared of drawing attention... Good. Increase security at those locations. I want him distracted." The Prince's eyes narrowed.

"Simple enough." Dzidra nodded in agreement.

"Excellent. Who's left?" asked the Prince.

Dzidra's lips pursed. "A few. Would you like to...?" Her voice trailed off softly with the question.

The Prince gestured silently for her to continue.

"Of course, Prince," Dzidra said, nodding. "Additionally, there's Prince Webb, who is currently occupied with eradicating a feral Nosferatu nest in northern Queens. As it turns out, the recent homicides reported in the news were not gang-related, as initially thought."

"They're slipping further and further apart from us..." the Prince murmured, his gaze distant.

Dzidra perceived that the Prince was speaking more to himself than to her, so she proceeded with her report. "As of two nights ago, our sources confirmed that Prince Webb's Court was gathering at the location. This provides a favorable opportunity to attack his organization and take it over. However, there is a longstanding blood tax arrangement between your Burroughs, and the expected delivery date is quickly approaching. Destroying dependable and loyal acquaintances isn't your goal."

"Hmm, no. I dare say it is not." The Prince's gaze took on the barest hint of approval when he looked at her now. "You are certainly well-informed."

Dzidra nodded slightly, trying to conceal her feelings of relief and satisfaction. "I pride myself on it," she replied modestly. "And I presume you're familiar with Henry 'Purchase' Burgess?"

"I must confess that my knowledge of the man undoubtedly pales in comparison to yours, Ms. Whitelocke. So please, don't keep this old man in suspense any longer." The Prince extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and settled back into his chair, placing his hands on the armrests.

"Thank you for your kind words, Prince Walker," Dzidra said with a modest nod. She then gracefully shifted her posture, maintaining an air of professionalism. "Turning our attention to Mr. Burgess, his position in our world is quite unique. Unaligned with either the Camarilla or the Anarchs, he commands a mix of disdain and admiration, jealousy and respect from both factions. His reputation stems from his remarkable ingenuity in market manipulation. He cleverly uses untraceable mortal proxies and innovative business strategies to maintain his influence. He largely relies on hired muscle for his operations and surveillance of his territories."

"Until recently—yes, I'm well aware," the Prince snorted.

Dzidra ducked her head. "Apologies, Prince. It was foolish of me to imply otherwise. You, and you alone, rule this city. Naturally, any information with even a grain of importance would be passed along to you."

"Oh-ho! Compliments now, is it?" His tone carried equal parts amusement and warning.

"A mere observation, Prince Walker. Not worthy of your attention or acknowledgment."

Dzidra's tone struck just the proper inflection to come across as overly respectful and servile without blatantly crossing the line into pandering. It was a fine line, a tightrope balancing act with deadly stakes. It almost felt like she'd gone too far with the whole 'attention' and 'acknowledgment' nonsense. But the Kindred pecking order was strict and simple. She had to stay well within the lines of professionalism, respect, and propriety when dealing with an old soul like the man beside her. Showing him that she knew how to act the part of a loyal servant may have made her feel degraded and less than who she felt she was, but it was also necessary.

A necessary evil, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Her acting skills may have just saved both her life and her family's.

The Prince's lips slowly curved into a crooked smile that failed to reach his eyes. "What else?" he finally asked.

"Recently, Mr. Burgess invested most of his capital into the SCI Corporation, headquartered on Staten Island. However, the corporation was highly unstable and ultimately collapsed, resulting in the loss of millions of dollars. Currently, he's in the process of rebuilding and regrouping and is in no position to challenge your authority or offer resistance. Nevertheless, due to his current situation, he holds no significance and has no value—for now," Dzidra explained.

The Prince made a noncommittal sound, choosing not to share his thoughts on the matter.

Dzidra proceeded to describe another individual from her vast mental dossier of influential figures in modern Kindred society. "And then there's Andrien Coste, a man of many names, the most recent of which is the operational alias 'The Frenchman.' He owns a vast spy network in the Bronx and relies heavily on diplomacy and the trading of secrets to the highest bidder or through a complex bartering system known only to himself and a handful of confidantes. Despite ruling for over eighty-seven years, he's managed to maintain a pacifistic approach when dealing with the Clans by outsourcing the protection of his interests to other parties. In short, I strongly believe that the only conflict you'll have with him is negotiating blood tributes over dinner."

The Prince let out a grumble that was halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "As if I would sit at the same table as that penny-pincher. Knowing him, he would probably make me foot the entire bill," the Prince muttered, resting the side of his head in the palm of his right hand.

"Lastly, there's Elizabeth Courtis—the Baroness of Brooklyn," Dzidra said, managing to stifle a smirk at the Prince's somewhat immature outburst. The memory of his earlier threat served as a reminder of his intimidating reputation in her mind.

Dzidra couldn't help but wonder, 'How is this the same man who once threatened to wipe out me and my entire family without hesitation?' She mused, 'I suppose old age affects us all differently.'

"The Baroness is one of the few individuals in this region who poses a direct threat to your authority within the city. Your politics, ideologies, and objectives are almost entirely different. However—" Dzidra was about to pause, hoping to allow the weight of her words to sink in, when suddenly, the muted sound of cracking glass echoed throughout the lounge.

Dzidra's instincts screamed of danger, and before she could even register what was happening, her figure had blurred and vanished behind the nearest couch.

'What was that?!' Her mind frantically raced as she searched for an explanation.

"Ah, there we are!" Prince Walker exclaimed, rising from his chair and glancing up at the antique clock hanging over the bar. "Took them long enough. You know, I was beginning to suspect you weren't who you said you were," he said, casting a curious glance toward the couch where Dzidra had taken cover.

"What—" Dzidra began to ask, but her question was cut off when the Prince called out, "No matter. This clears everything up. Gav? Gavin! Would you be a dear?"

Dzidra's head popped up from behind the couch, confusion etched on her beautiful face. As she surveyed the room, she noticed a single point on one of the window panels that had caved in slightly, causing cracks to spread out in a pattern resembling a spiderweb.

'Hold on.' Her thoughts raced. That was the window directly in front of where she had been sitting... at head height. Dzidra would have broken out into a cold sweat if she were still capable. The realization that she had almost died hit her like a cold splash of reality. All the successes she had worked so hard to achieve, all her accumulated power and influence, could have been lost in an instant. As soon as Prince Walker's words sank in, her mind took a darker turn. 'He anticipated this? He... was actually waiting for someone to try and kill me?' She didn't know how to feel about that and couldn't stop herself from asking.

"You... were actually expecting someone to...?" Dzidra asked, her voice trembling as she got up from behind the couch and nervously straightened her dress.

The Prince shifted his attention from the cracked window to Dzidra, and for a moment, it seemed like he had forgotten she was present. "Hm?" he muttered before quickly regaining his composure. "Oh, right. Yes, what about it?" he waved her off, then returned to the window, holding his chin with one hand and furrowing his eyebrows in contemplation.

"Winchester? Springfield? No, no, the impact radius isn't that extensive... so it must be Remington, isn't that right, Gav?" Prince Walker shuffled around the point of impact to gain a better perspective. He cocked his head in various directions and probed the glass with a finger, all the while muttering to himself.

Dzidra was on the verge of speaking when her instincts alerted her to imminent danger, and this time, it felt much more palpable. She instinctively took a step back and prepared herself to circulate her vitae at a moment's notice. She could sense a pair of eyes fixated on her, even as Prince Walker continued to examine the window with his back to her. Suddenly, the unsettling feeling of being watched was no longer just a feeling, as the two of them were no longer alone.

A murky shadow detached itself from a corner of the lounge and swiftly darted across the floor, halting beside the Prince before gradually ascending into the air.

Dzidra watched with unconcealed astonishment as the amorphous fluid-like shadow transformed into a pale, bald man who stood a little taller and broader than the Prince. The bald man wore acid-washed jeans and a simple white T-shirt that strained to conceal his muscular build.

Prince Walker acknowledged the arrival of the newcomer without bothering to turn his head. "A day late and a dollar short, you old bag of bones," he remarked.

Ignoring the Prince's opening comment, the bald man replied in a frigid, gravelly baritone that sounded like ice chips rubbing together. "The closest vantage point is the Scarlet Palace and Spa, approximately forty-two meters out and at a ten-degree decline."

Dzidra made the connection that the bald man must be the "Gav" that Prince Walker had mentioned earlier, but she couldn't figure out why she couldn't detect the scent of vitae on him, despite his evident proficiency with Oblivion energies. This was an extremely dangerous man.

'The Prince has some truly frightening allies.' Dzidra suppressed a shudder.

"Beyond that, within a radius of seven-hundred meters from these windows, there are approximately three hundred and seventy-eight rooftops and elevated vantage points above street level," the bald man explained. "Therefore, the building with the smallest angular deviation within that range would be The King's Atoll."

"Okay, okay, but never mind all that," Prince Walker dismissed Gavin's dry matter-of-fact recitation before Dzidra could process how extensive and complicated of an analysis it was.

'Is this the Court's security?' Dzidra wondered, closely watching the pair's interaction. 'No, they're too close, too familiar, and judging by their body language... personal bodyguard?'

Prince Walker gestured toward the point of impact before leaning to the side and peering through the unbroken window. "What's the caliber and model? Quickly now!" he demanded.

"It could have been standard NATO, .300 Winchester Magnum, or .338 Lapua Magnum, though I would've expected more damage to the glass with Lapua," Gavin listed off as he examined the damage. "Or it could have been an SSG 69, AWM, or... M24 SWS," he concluded.

The Prince snapped and pointed at Gavin. "It was the AWM. Definitely the AWM," he declared, clapping his hands before crossing his arms. "Now then. Either the Baroness has impeccable comedic timing, or this place was bugged. Unlikely, though." The Prince frowned in thought. "Wait, what am I doing?" He threw his hands up with a frustrated groan. "You always make things right bloody difficult for yourself, Percival," he muttered, then turned to Gavin. "Gav, please bring in that idiot alive. I have questions for the poor soul with large enough balls to take potshots at my Elysium." His expression gradually darkened as he spoke.

"My Prince?" Gavin asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dzidra was taken aback, as the bald man had shown more emotion at this moment than he had since appearing.

"Well? Why are you just standing there?" The Prince appeared genuinely puzzled by Gavin's delay. "I saw him packing his gear on top of the Crescent Library. ¡Ándale! Por favor!"

Gavin's expression hinted at reluctance, but he nevertheless nodded; his figure suddenly wreathed in shadows. "Should I inform Cassandra and Adeline?" he asked, his voice now deeper and slightly warped.

Prince Walker had already turned away and was heading toward the bar. He turned halfway at Gavin's question, clasping his hands behind his back and staring ponderously at the ceiling. Finally, he shook his head and said, "Um, no... well...? Yeah, no... best to avoid that. It's better to bring him in without any missing pieces."

"Understood, My Prince," Gavin rumbled before dissolving into a pool of shadows that burst apart across the floor, streaking through the windows and vanishing into the night beyond.

As Gavin passed through, Dzidra noticed thousands of minuscule shapes and figures resembling hieroglyphs flashing across the entire length of the floor at the base of the windows.

Dzidra was taken aback by the sheer number of warding runes inscribed on the floor, so much so, that she nearly gasped aloud. She couldn't begin to calculate the costs involved, let alone the necessary labor and refined talent for the inscription process itself. And based on Gavin's movements, it seemed that the Prince's followers had their vitae essences somehow recorded into the runes so they could pass through at will. Dzidra was thoroughly impressed, and her desire to become a member of Prince Walker's Court intensified to a height she hadn't expected.

"Oh, and I almost forgot!" The Prince's voice rang out from behind the bar, causing Dzidra to turn her head in surprise.

"Ms. Whitelocke," he said, rising from behind the bar with a bottle of wine in each hand, "-I would like to express my gratitude for drawing out some of my enemies." His thumbnails elongated, and he used them to pierce the corks of the bottles. Then, with a flick of both thumbs, the corks soundly popped out and rolled across the countertop, falling somewhere behind the bar. The next moment, a mind-numbingly sweet aroma of rich, coppery iron wafted past Dzidra's nose.

Dzidra's eyes dilated with desire as the aroma of the exquisitely refined blood wine filled her senses. Her inner Beast stirred, urging her to approach the bar with a flirtatious sway in her hips.

"Prince Walker, you shouldn't have—" Dzidra started to say, only for her seductive gaze and movements to suddenly falter, and her alluring aura to collapse like a poorly built house.

The Prince had raised both wine bottles to his lips and began eagerly guzzling down their contents, filling the lounge with the sound of enthusiastic gulping.

Dzidra's expression fell, fluctuating somewhere between the realms of crestfallen and dejected before settling on despondency. The unique aroma of the blood wine had left her mouth feeling incredibly parched, and she realized that even her affluent family didn't possess anything of similar quality in their reserves. Not even close. It was depressing.

The Prince slammed the wine bottles down onto the countertop with a satisfied "Ah!" and smacked his lips. Then, he noticed Dzidra standing there like a wounded puppy. "Mm?" His face scrunched up; then realization lit up his eyes. "Oh! Ha-ha, my apologies, darling; I got excited there," he chuckled. "Listen," he tapped the side of a wine bottle with a nail, "these suckers? I can only imagine what they'd smell like to you, but the moment you took a sip? Final Death."

Dzidra tensed up, looking at the bottle as if it were a dear friend who'd betrayed her.

The Prince cracked a rare smirk. "That's more like it. Remember, your Beast is a right stupid idiot that doesn't know the difference between up and down," he said. He then clapped his hands and gestured behind her. "Now then, that over there is for you."

Dzidra turned and saw the unmarked glass bottle of golden, honey-colored liquid from before still innocently sitting on the table. Her eyes narrowed as she walked over to the table and picked up the bottle. "That there is a 94-year-old single malt scotch whiskey," Dzidra heard the Prince's voice and turned around to see him place a lit cigarette to his lips.

The corners of The Prince's mouth turned downward as he caught Dzidra's gaze. "Don't give me that look, you damned succubus," his tone dropped, and his eyes grew cold. Dzidra felt a shiver run down her spine, but before she could defend herself, the Prince continued speaking. "I know you can't drink it—even I can't. So, why did I purchase this single malt scotch whiskey over nine decades ago in Scotland?" he asked rhetorically, taking a drag of the cigarette and blowing out a thin wisp of smoke, never breaking eye contact.

Dzidra held her tongue but maintained respectful eye contact, not daring to further risk angering the Prince.

Leaning his hip against the bar, he posed a question, "What makes the world go round?" His eyes seemed to bore through her, but she couldn't look away. "What... is the root of all evil?" His voice trailed off as his eyes shifted down to the smoldering cigarette in his hand. The room fell into a tense hush. Moment after moment dragged on, the silence broken only by the sound of the Prince's cigarette slowly burning down to the filter.

Dzidra remained absolutely motionless. Not even daring to twitch.

Ash drizzled to the floor from the cigarette's end.

The Prince blinked, a tired and weaker tone creeping into his voice as he finished his sentence. "Money..."

Then, his eyes rapidly flickered, and clarity returned to his previously absent gaze as he straightened up against the bar. He harrumphed and glared at Dzidra, shaking his head in frustration. "Skilled at espionage and intelligence gathering, my immortal ass," he muttered, taking a drag of the cigarette with a frown. He turned away from her to face the backlit shelf of liquors, his eyes scanning the bottles as if looking for something specific. The golden backlit glow within the shelves cast an eerie glow on his stern features.

Dzidra's head hung low as she felt a pang of regret and the weight of the Prince's disappointment. Her lapse in judgment had been unworthy of her skills. However, she now understood the value of the bottle. It could fetch a small fortune if she found the right buyer. The thought of the influx of liquid assets gave her a glimmer of hope for her family's future.

"Ah, well..." The Prince sighed. "There's youth... and then there's eternal youth."

Dzidra lifted her head, a glimmer of hope in her eyes as she saw the Prince turn back towards her, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a faint smile. "Perhaps you're not completely hopeless, Ms. Whitelocke," he stated, giving a single nod of approval.

Dzidra was beyond ecstatic, but before she could say anything, the door to the lounge suddenly burst open with a loud crash. The sound of frantic shouting instantly shattered the peaceful atmosphere.

"Ah! Fuck, goddamnit! Let go... right... now!" Gavin strode into the lounge, gripping the nape of a man's shirt in one hand and a menacing rifle in the other. He hauled the struggling man behind him, readjusting his grip as he effortlessly hoisted the man into the air like a bag of laundry. With a foot, Gavin closed the lounge door before turning back to face Dzidra and Prince Walker, the man still flailing in his grasp, hissing and spitting futilely into Gavin's face.

The Prince made a disapproving noise. "Gav, did you forget to clean your shoes before coming inside?" Suddenly, he was standing beside Gavin, moving so quickly that Dzidra couldn't even register his movements. There was no danger sense, no remnant vitae signature, nothing. He simply appeared in another place. Dzidra's respect for the Prince broke her previous scale and established itself as something else entirely.

The Prince lightly patted Gavin's bicep. "Hey now, I was just kidding. Thank you," he said with a small smile. Gavin remained motionless and expressionless, like a statue.

"Now then, whatever shall we do with you?" asked the Prince, addressing the man who had given up struggling against Gavin's hold and was now clutching his large forearm, glaring at Prince Walker. "The possibilities are endless, really," the Prince continued with a sly grin, strolling closer to the captive man. "We could interrogate you... torture you... or simply dispose of you. But where's the fun in that?" He leaned in closer, his eyes glittering with a mischievous light. "No, I have a much better idea."

"Me?" The man scoffed. "You fucking idiot. Do you even have... the slightest idea who you're messing with?!" he choked out through gritted teeth, his burning eyes locked with the Prince's.

Dzidra noticed the subtle tightening of Gavin's grip on the man and realized that Gavin's and the Prince's relationship was more complicated than she'd initially estimated.

"Now that you mention it," the Prince said, his expression turning quizzical as he took a drag of his cigarette. "I can't say that I do," he exhaled a cloud of smoke directly into the man's face, his tone playful yet menacing.

The man violently renewed his struggle but once again found himself unable to break free from Gavin's unyielding grip. Eventually, he let out a resigned growl and stopped fighting, arrogantly secure in the knowledge that these gangsters wouldn't dare make an enemy of his boss.

The Prince nonchalantly waited for the man to stop struggling before asking in an innocent tone, "And do you know who I am?"

"What? You?" The man scoffed. "Some moneybags asshole who doesn't know his place by the looks of it," he said, scanning the ornate lounge before his eyes settled on Dzidra standing elegantly across the room with a bottle in her hands. His feigned veneer of calm assuredness vanished as a vicious sneer replaced it. "You better start running, Whitelocke! I'm only the first—you're fucking dead!" he shouted, baring his fangs at her menacingly.

"Gavin."

SMACK!

Gavin's large hand struck the man's face. Bones shattered with a sickening crunch, and blood sprayed across the floor. The man convulsed in pain, coughing and gasping for air. His piteous moans suddenly devolved into blood-chilling screams as, in a moment of sheer brutality, the Prince jabbed the lit end of his cigarette into the man's eye socket. The sounds of choked screaming and sizzling filled the lounge, mingling with the nauseating stench of burnt flesh. "Y-you-yousonofa-fuck! Do - who you, AH!" The man released another hair-raising howl when Prince Walker crammed the remaining length of the cigarette into the man's mangled eye socket.

The Prince then gave a nod to Gavin, who put down the weapon, raised the screaming man with one arm, drew back his other hand into a fist, and delivered a simple punch. The man's screams were abruptly cut off as his nose caved back into his skull with a sickening crack. His body briefly convulsed before going limp, his limbs unceremoniously hanging at the mercy of gravity. Dark blood began to drip steadily onto the floor.

"Well, shit," muttered the Prince, inspecting his now blood-stained dress shirt. "I hope you're aware that you're paying for the dry cleaning," he scolded Gavin while attempting to clean himself up, only to smear the stains further.

Gavin hoisted the unconscious man over his shoulder in a princess carry, scooped up the weapon from the ground, and strode towards the door without saying a word.

"Mm, right you are, old boy!" the Prince nodded, turning to follow Gavin. "Ah, and Ms. Whitelocke, thank you again for your help in apprehending this fiend." He said as they passed by Dzidra. He gave the unconscious man a rough pat on the backside. "The world is a safer place for it."

One of the men who had escorted Dzidra through the building opened the door for Gavin, then stepped aside into the hall.

Gavin stooped to make his way through the doorway; his burden slung over his shoulder. As Gavin disappeared down the hallway with the unconscious man, the Prince turned back to Dzidra. "Oh, and welcome to the team. I trust that you won't disappoint me. Do see yourself out when you can, as someone will be in touch with you shortly," he said before soundly shutting the door behind himself.

Dzidra was left standing in the middle of the lounge. The silence was deafening.

She looked at the cracked window...

The blood splatters on the floor...

The bottle in her hands...

The lounge door...

"Fuck," she sighed.

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Vampire: The Masquerade - The Empty Embrace is not official World of Darkness material.