The sun sets over Ravenswood City in shades of crimson and gold, painting the sky with colors that speak of endings and beginnings in equal measure. As darkness begins to claim the quiet streets and suburban neighborhoods, a different kind of predator makes his way into the peaceful community—one whose very presence seems to carry the chill of death and the promise of violence.
Viktor Draven's motorcycle rumbles through the city limits like a harbinger of doom, its engine growling with barely contained power as he navigates streets lined with family homes and picket fences. The bike itself is a thing of beauty and menace—matte black with chrome accents that catch the streetlights like silver fangs, designed for speed and silence when stealth becomes necessary.
He cuts an imposing figure astride the machine, his tall frame clad in black leather that has seen countless battles and emerged scarred but victorious. Dark hair whips in the wind beneath his helmet, and pale green eyes scan the suburban landscape with the cold calculation of someone who has spent decades learning to read the subtle signs that mark supernatural presence.
Those eyes have seen things that would drive ordinary humans to madness—ancient vampires drunk on their own power, werewolf packs turned feral by bloodlust, witches who bargain with demons for abilities that corrupt their very souls. But tonight, those experienced hunter's instincts sing with anticipation because somewhere in this innocent-looking city lurks the kind of prey that has made his reputation legendary among those who know such things exist.
A vampire. Not just any vampire, but one whose scent carries undertones of royal blood and ancient power that make Viktor's trigger finger itch with anticipation.
He's been tracking this particular quarry for weeks, following a trail of supernatural disturbances that led him across three states and through a dozen small towns where reality had been subtly altered by inhuman presence. The vampire he seeks is young by his kind's standards but powerful beyond normal parameters—a prince of the undead who has somehow managed to slip through dimensional barriers into the human realm.
Viktor's lips curl into a smile that holds no warmth as he recalls the phone call that started this hunt—a contact in the supernatural intelligence network reporting dimensional breach activity near a small boarding school town. The description of the energy signature had made his blood sing with recognition. After twenty years of hunting monsters, he knows the difference between common bloodsuckers and true nobility of the damned.
This vampire prince will be his masterpiece, the kill that cements his legacy as the greatest hunter of his generation.
The Sunrise Motel sits on the edge of Ravenswood's commercial district like a relic from a less prosperous era, its neon sign flickering intermittently against the darkening sky. The building itself appears to have been constructed sometime in the 1960s and maintained with the bare minimum of effort ever since—paint peeling from window frames, parking lot cracked and patched with materials that don't quite match, and an overall air of shabby functionality that makes it perfect for Viktor's purposes.
Anonymity is crucial in his line of work. The kind of people who frequent places like the Sunrise Motel tend to mind their own business and ask no questions about guests who arrive with unusual luggage or keep irregular hours. Cash payments and false identification ensure that his presence leaves no electronic trail for curious authorities to follow.
He guides the motorcycle into a parking space near the back of the lot, choosing a location that offers multiple escape routes while providing clear sight lines to the street beyond. Years of experience have taught him that hunters who survive long enough to develop reputations always plan their exits before committing to any position.
The motel's office smells of stale cigarettes and industrial disinfectant, its fluorescent lighting casting everything in harsh, unflattering tones. The clerk behind the bulletproof glass partition looks up from his magazine with the bored expression of someone whose job has long since ceased to provide any surprises.
"Need a room?" the clerk asks, his voice carrying the nasal quality of chronic sinusitis and social disappointment.
"Single, ground floor, non-smoking," Viktor replies, sliding a driver's license and credit card through the slot beneath the window. The identification identifies him as Vincent Drake, traveling salesman from Portland, Oregon—one of a dozen false identities he maintains for situations exactly like this.
The clerk processes the transaction with mechanical efficiency, handing over a plastic key card and a photocopied map of local restaurants that appears to have been reproduced so many times the text has become barely legible.
"Room 117," the clerk says, already returning his attention to the magazine. "Checkout's at eleven, ice machine's around the corner, and the WiFi password is 'sunrise2023' all lowercase."
Viktor nods his thanks and returns to his motorcycle, retrieving the hard-shell cases that contain the tools of his trade. To casual observation, they might contain photography equipment or scientific instruments—both explanations he's used successfully in the past. In reality, they hold an arsenal that represents centuries of accumulated knowledge about how to kill things that shouldn't exist.
Room 117 sits at the end of the motel's ground floor wing, offering privacy and tactical advantages that make the additional walk from the parking lot worthwhile. Viktor unlocks the door and steps into a space that defines the concept of utilitarian accommodation—two double beds with comforters that have seen better decades, a small table with two chairs, and a bathroom that smells permanently of bleach and broken dreams.
But the room's aesthetic shortcomings are irrelevant compared to its strategic value. The single window offers an unobstructed view across the street to Ravenswood High School, its Gothic architecture silhouetted against the night sky like something from a more romantic and dangerous era.
Viktor sets his cases on the larger bed and opens them with the reverence of a priest unveiling sacred artifacts. Silver bullets nestled in custom foam padding, each one blessed by seven different religious traditions and inscribed with symbols that predate written history. Wooden stakes carved from trees that grew in soil consecrated by the blood of martyrs. Vials of holy water from springs that saints once blessed, each one capable of causing agony to the undead.
And his personal favorite—a crossbow that fires silver-tipped bolts with enough force to pierce vampire bone and pin even the strongest undead to solid surfaces. The weapon has been his companion for fifteen years, and its stock bears small notches that mark successful hunts like a gunfighter's belt marks fallen enemies.
He assembles the crossbow with practiced efficiency, testing the string tension and checking the bolt alignment with movements that speak of countless repetitions. Every component has been maintained to perfection, because in his profession, equipment failure means death—and not the quick, clean kind that comes from normal human violence.
As he works, Viktor's enhanced senses—heightened through years of exposure to supernatural energies and careful consumption of alchemical preparations—detect the faint trace of vampire presence that permeates Ravenswood's atmosphere. It's subtle, woven into the fabric of the town's daily routine like a scent that most humans would never notice.
But Viktor Draven is not most humans. The vampire is here, hiding among these innocent people like a wolf in sheep's clothing. And tomorrow, when the sun rises over this peaceful community, the hunt will begin in earnest.
His pale green eyes reflect the streetlight filtering through the window as he peers across at the high school where his prey undoubtedly walks among unsuspecting teenagers, playing at being human while corrupting everything he touches with his unnatural presence.
"Soon," Viktor whispers to the darkness, his voice carrying the promise of violence and the satisfaction of a predator who has finally cornered his quarry. "Very soon, vampire prince, you'll learn what happens when monsters try to hide among the innocent."
Outside, Ravenswood sleeps peacefully, unaware that death itself has taken up residence across from their children's school.