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The bar's dim lighting caught the edge of the blade just for a second, enough to spark a sharp glint in the eyes of the dark-skinned man drinking alone at the counter. He feigned disinterest, as if the murmurs of the bar were just white noise, but the moment the metallic flash crossed his line of sight, something shifted in his face. His jaw tightened. His eyelids lowered ever so slightly. It wasn't a dramatic or clumsy reaction. It was the kind of subtle shift no ordinary person would notice—but for Nate, it was more than enough.
There he was. He'd recognized it.
The bald man, to whom Nate had shown the blade with the drunken flair of someone enchanted by a new toy, burst into raucous laughter. He clutched his stomach, throwing his head back with the dry, cracked laugh of someone who's drunk too much and slept too little.
"That!?" he shouted, pointing at the knife like it was a bad joke. "Nah, we need something bigger if we wanna see fingers fly."
The table trembled slightly when the bartender arrived with two long kitchen knives. He laid them down with a deep, heavy clack. These weren't ordinary knives: their edges were chipped, their blades weathered by use. They could cut, sure—but they also carried stories.
Two men stepped into the center of the bar amid cheers, shoves, and applause, like boxers approaching the ring. They picked up the blades with ease, spinning them in their hands like natural extensions of their wrists. They sat across from each other, elbows planted firmly, eyes sharp. Their fingers drummed against the table's edge. The air thickened with that filthy, feral electricity that always precedes violence.
The game was about to begin.
Nate stepped back a few paces, still swaying, watching with apparent fascination. His eyes widened as if it were a circus act, not a test of courage that might end with a scream and a bloodied hand.
"Ooooh, now that's scary," he slurred, dragging out the words like his tongue weighed a ton. It was the voice of a child watching his first boxing match—excited and scared all at once.
He lingered there for several minutes, at a safe distance, commenting along with the other drunks. He laughed too much, his cackles clattering like shattered plates. He exaggerated his reactions and clapped when there was nothing to celebrate. Every move was calculated. Every stumble, carefully rehearsed.
Once he felt he'd fulfilled his quota of performance, he peeled away from the group with a clumsy spin, tripping slightly over a table. He zigzagged toward the bar with a dumb grin plastered on his face.
The dark-skinned man was still watching him. Not obviously, but with surgical precision. From his corner, his posture remained contained, but the tension in his fingers around the glass gave him away. Nate noticed he hadn't dropped his guard for a second since seeing the blade—but he hadn't moved either. He wasn't going to bite the bait so easily.
At the bar, Nate ordered another drink. And another. And another. Some he barely touched, leaving them on random tables. Others he spilled with perfectly orchestrated carelessness, soaking his clothes in the unmistakable stink of cheap, sweet, corrosive liquor.
At times, he wrapped an arm around some loud guy, shouting random names, mimicking the rowdy euphoria of those betting on the knife duel. He sang badly, or shouted "That one's losing a hand!" between guffaws. He fit right in. Just another drunk with too many drinks and nowhere to go.
Time dragged with artificial slowness, as if the bar were suspended in a swamp of cigarette smoke, sweat, and flickering lights. Outside, the night had thickened with the damp weight only found in the early hours. Inside, the laughter was rougher, the voices more broken, the bodies looser.
Nate watched without seeming to, counting seconds, measuring silences. The dark-skinned man was growing impatient. His leg bounced unevenly, as if every minute that passed was a miscalculation.
It was time to leave.
Nate stood, swaying, and stumbled toward the center of the room, bumping into a chair. He let out a stupid laugh—the kind that only makes sense inside a drunk's head.
"Iiiit's veeery late," he said, each word warped like a crooked brushstroke. He addressed the bald man with slurred speech and the expression of a child lost to sleep. "Buuuut you gotta promise we'll play again next weeek, yeah?"
The bald man, red as an overripe tomato and about to pass out at the bar, lifted a limp arm in approval.
"Of course, kid! Just bring more knives next time!"
Nate laughed, rubbing his forehead theatrically. Then he frowned, as if remembering something important.
"Hey… where can I pee? I'm about to explode."
The bald man scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"The bathroom here's a dump… But there's a door in the back. Leads to an alley. No one'll bother you."
"Greeaat…" Nate muttered, clutching his stomach like he might burst. He turned and stumbled toward the back of the place, pushing aside a threadbare curtain with his shoulder. His steps were erratic, like the floor tilted beneath him.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to.
He knew—with the kind of sharpened instinct that needs no proof—that the man was watching him.
And that was exactly what he wanted.
Nate exited through the back door, which slammed shut behind him with a metallic thud that echoed off the damp alley walls. The night air reeked of humidity and trash, a sour stench rising from overflowing dumpsters. There were no streetlights—only moonlight filtering between buildings, casting long shadows that stretched like twisted limbs.
He moved quickly and leaned against a cold, worn brick wall. Bent forward, as if ready to vomit, his forehead beaded with sweat that had nothing to do with alcohol. He waited. Just a few seconds that felt like minutes.
Then he heard it: the door creaking open again, followed by heavy footsteps scraping over the gravel.
It was him.
The dark-skinned man appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the bar's weak interior light. His face was half-shadowed, but his expression was clear: annoyance… and something else. Suspicion.
Nate glanced over his shoulder and, still feigning drunkenness, shouted with a slurred voice:
"Hey! It's taken!"
He let out a short, shaky laugh, as if he didn't even know what he was laughing at. The man didn't answer right away. He just stood there, eyes fixed on him. Then his voice rang out—clear, almost accusatory:
"Where'd you get that knife?"
Nate barely managed to straighten up before he saw the man walking toward him, not waiting for an answer. There was tension in his shoulders, tightness in his jaw. Every step sounded like a threat.
"Hey, what's your problem?!" Nate cried, stumbling back, pretending to be scared, letting his voice tremble. His words echoed down the narrow corridor of concrete.
The man didn't respond. He just picked up the pace, his hardened face and dark eyes gleaming with fury—ancient fury.
Nate turned on his heels and started to run. Or more accurately, staggered forward in a disjointed jog, as if he couldn't coordinate properly. His steps were uneven; his shoulder slammed into a rusted crate, and he tripped on a broken bottle.
Behind him, the man cursed under his breath and broke into a full sprint. His footsteps sounded firmer, faster.
Nate dove deeper into the alley's labyrinth, weaving between passages, dodging trash bags, and leaping over puddles of stagnant water—until he found a particularly dark corner. Without slowing, he veered sharply and disappeared around the bend.
The man, seeing him vanish, sped up and turned into the same alley.
But as he entered, he stopped dead in his tracks.
There, standing in the middle of the alley, was Nate. Beneath the shadow of an old metal sign, the knife glinted in his hand like a sharp fang under the pale moonlight. His stance was firm, feet planted, torso upright. There was no sign of drunkenness in his eyes now—only a quiet mix of anger and anticipation.
The man studied him carefully. His dark, beastly eyes locked onto Nate's. He frowned, as if sniffing the air, searching for something beyond the surface smell of cheap perfume and spilled booze. He inhaled… then shook his head. As if he couldn't quite place the scent.
But that didn't stop him.
Now visibly irritated, the man raised his voice from across the alley.
"Where did you get that knife?!"
Nate didn't answer. He spun the blade slowly between his fingers, as if distracted—but never took his eyes off the wolf. Every twitch, every shift of muscle, every breath was registered by his calculating stare. The blade caught the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, and though his posture seemed relaxed, his entire body was ready.
The man growled—a deep, rage-filled sound.
"Then I guess I'll make you talk," he snapped, lunging forward.
Nate stepped back, then again, raising the knife with firm hands and planting his heels. The first punch came straight for his chest, but Nate slipped aside with a dry sidestep. He knew he couldn't afford to get hit—any blow that landed would shatter his bones.
But he had learned something crucial during the chase: the wolf wasn't that much faster than he was. He was quick—quicker than a normal human—but to someone who'd seen a vampire move, it was manageable.
He wouldn't underestimate him, of course. That strength was dangerous. But Nate believed he could buy time.
The wolf unleashed a flurry of wild blows, each one laced with raw fury. His arms moved like hammers, cutting arcs through the air, trying to crush. Nate breathed through his nose, keeping every heartbeat and muscle under control, dodging by mere inches. Sometimes ducking, sometimes spinning, sometimes just retreating. But always watching. Always analyzing.
Then, while sidestepping, he got pinned against the wall. The man seized the moment and punched straight at him—his fist shattered the stone with brutal force, sending shards and dust flying. Nate instinctively shielded himself, shocked by the impact—but didn't waste a second: with a quick, precise move, he stabbed the blade into the man's shoulder—the one still embedded in the wall.
The man's scream was guttural—a mix between a howl and a roar.
Nate yanked the blade back and stepped away. He saw dark blood trickle through the torn fabric of the jacket. He was bleeding—not just wounded, but bleeding like anyone else. And that surprised him.
But the wolf wasn't done.
Now angrier, more feral, he attacked again. His strikes were less precise, more violent—pure instinct. Pure rage.
Nate couldn't block, so he kept dodging—shorter, quicker steps now, ducking low, twisting his torso, using the walls to his advantage. He took every chance to strike: a cut to the side, another to the forearm, a graze across the cheek. Wounds opened easily.
Then, during a lapse, the wolf dropped his arms for just a second. Nate seized the moment—slid to his side and drove the blade between his ribs with all the strength his muscles could summon.
The scream was louder than before.
Nate tried to retrieve the knife, but didn't make it in time. The wolf had staggered back, retreating as fast as he could. Then he looked at Nate. No longer with rage. Now there was caution—maybe even fear.
He stumbled a few steps backward, clutching his side. Then, without a word, he turned around and bolted from the alley with long strides, like he was running from a demon.
Nate didn't move. He stood there, breathing hard, sweat rolling down his temple.
The wolf, for his part, kept glancing over his shoulder, making sure Nate wasn't following. But on one of those looks—just as he was about to exit the alley—he slammed into something.
Something that didn't budge an inch.
The impact was dull. His body bounced back and crashed to the ground with a thud. Dazed, he looked up.
The first thing he saw were red eyes glowing like burning coals beneath blond hair. Then a smile—not one of joy, but of patient triumph. Behind that expression lay restrained pleasure, a completed calculation.
Vladimir was fascinated.
The man didn't even need to sniff him. That chill running up his neck, that visceral sense of danger… it was pure instinct. He was facing a vampire. A real one.
With panic etched into every muscle, he scrambled to his feet and ran toward the other end of the alley. His steps were fast, but no longer confident—they were the steps of someone fleeing with their soul on the line.
He ran past Nate, but Nate made no move to stop him. He only watched, arms hanging at his sides, breath still heavy, blood from the fight thundering in his ears.
And just as the wolf was about to reach the exit, a shadow dropped from the rooftop above. The silhouette fell like a predator, landing in front of him with the dry thud of boots on asphalt.
It was Stefan.
The curious glint in his eyes betrayed amusement. He didn't look angry or threatening—just entertained, like someone watching the unexpected twist of a chess match. His gaze slid lazily over the cornered man, assessing him like a clumsy, insignificant creature.
The man stopped cold. His chest heaved. He turned, looking for escape—but behind him were the human who had wounded him… and another vampire.
Three figures. Three presences weighing on him like a sentence. He turned his head, gasping, cornered by something far older and more terrible than brute strength.
Then Nate stepped forward. His voice, loaded with exhaustion and resolve, sliced through the silence like a blade:
"I think now that we're all here… we can finally have a talk."