The prisoner was already bleeding when Kieran entered the reinforced steel room.
Marcus, his second-in-command, stood in the corner, his usually immaculate suit splattered with red. "He's not talking."
The vampire chained to the silver-lined chair hissed, his fangs fully extended, eyes wild with a mixture of fear and defiance. He couldn't have been turned more than fifty years ago—young, impulsive, stupid.
"Do you know who I am?" Kieran's voice was soft, almost gentle. That's what made it terrifying.
"Kieran Ashford," the prisoner spat. "The Eternal. The Cursed One. The vampire who feels." He laughed, a broken sound. "They say you've been searching for a ghost for a thousand years. Pathetic."
Kieran moved faster than sight. One moment he was across the room; the next, his hand was wrapped around the prisoner's throat, lifting him and the chair off the ground.
"Who ordered the kills?" Kieran's voice remained calm, but his grip tightened. "Who authorized hunting in my city?"
The prisoner's eyes rolled back. "V-Viktor... Viktor wants war... wants to expose us all... says the old ways are dead—"
Kieran released him, letting the chair crash back down. Viktor Volkov. Of course. The Russian was ambitious, reckless, and had been pushing for a revelation—for vampires to stop hiding and take their "rightful place" ruling over humans.
"Kill him," Kieran ordered Marcus without looking back. "Make it quick. He's just a pawn."
As he walked away, the prisoner's last words echoed behind him: "Viktor knows about the prophecy! He knows your precious human is coming back! He's going to find them first!"
Kieran stopped mid-step, every muscle in his body tensing. The pain in his chest intensified, sharp enough to make even him wince.
Impossible. No one knows. I've kept it hidden for centuries.
But as he stepped back into the elevator, Kieran felt something he hadn't felt in decades: fear.
Not for himself. For whoever carried Elias's soul.