The VIP Bar was a refuge suspended between excess and silence.
The curved walls of black crystal reflected amber and violet lights that seemed to pulse slowly, like a heart too tired to beat fast.
The sound inside was controlled, designed not to enliven, but to dampen thoughts. The polished stone counter absorbed the coldness of the glasses, and the air carried a mixture of refined alcohol, residual magic, and perfumes too expensive to have names.
Raphaeline sat alone.
Her body reclined on the high stool, one elbow resting on the counter, the other hand holding the dark crystal goblet.
The liquid inside was thick, deep red, almost black under certain lights.
Midnight Blood. An ancient, rare blood wine, made with vampiric techniques that no longer existed—not since before the schism, before Alucard, before the civil war that now tore apart clans, lineages, and memories.
She takes a slow sip.
