Night fell over the Bronx.
Following the mission marker glowing faintly in his HUD, Darren made his way into a rundown bar that reeked of beer, sweat, and regret.
Investigation? Please. He didn't investigate anymore—he followed the quest line.
The red guidance trail hovering in his vision led him straight to a slick-haired guy in a cheap suit and fake gold watch, chatting up a girl whose arms and neck were covered in rune tattoos.
The man flashed his wrist just enough for the gold plating to catch the light. The rune girl's eyes practically turned into dollar signs.
Within seconds, she set down her barely-touched beer and stumbled into his arms like a moth to a cheap flame.
The man grinned, draping an arm around her waist—a waist so thick Darren swore it could've tanked a punch from Iron Monger—and led her out the door.
"Guy's got no standards at all," Darren muttered, equal parts disgusted and impressed, before slipping out after them.
They turned down a narrow alley, dimly lit by a single flickering streetlamp. At the end stood a steel door, inconspicuous and locked from within.
The brown-haired man knocked.
Moments later, a massive bouncer opened up. The two exchanged a few quiet words; the bouncer nodded and stepped aside. The door slammed shut behind them.
Darren waited three beats, then knocked himself.
The bouncer reappeared, eyeing him suspiciously. "What do you want?"
"I just saw my friend go in there with some creep," Darren said, feigning righteous fury. "I'm going in to get her out."
"This is a members-only club," the bouncer replied coldly. "You're not on the list."
Darren scowled, pitching his voice with exaggerated drama. "She might be drunk, tattooed, and questionable in judgment—but she's my friend! If you don't let me in, what if that guy takes advantage of her!?"
The bouncer's lip twitched.
He wasn't sure what was more disturbing—the speech or the idea that someone actually wanted to take advantage of that girl.
"Fine," Darren said darkly. "Then I'll call the cops."
The air shifted. A glint of red flickered in the bouncer's eyes.
"…Alright," he said slowly. "You can come in."
He opened the door again—but the look he gave Darren was the kind reserved for corpses.
Darren walked through without hesitation.
The corridor beyond was long and dim, lit only by a few scattered bulbs. At the far end, another door waited, guarded by a bald man holding a glowing stamp.
Without a word, he grabbed Darren's hand and pressed the stamp onto it. A faint ultraviolet mark appeared.
When he pushed open the final door, a blast of heat and noise hit him like a wall. The air reeked of alcohol, smoke, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe.
Heavy electronic music pounded through the underground club. Colored lights slashed through the air while bodies writhed and collided on the dance floor like a scene straight out of Sin City.
In the darker corners, couples drank, smoked, and… well, did things Darren wished he hadn't seen.
He blinked rapidly. I am pure. I saw nothing.
The red mission line had vanished. That meant the clue was here somewhere.
"Hey there, handsome."
A sultry voice pulled his attention down—literally down—toward a woman with fiery red curls and a neckline that defied gravity. The glow mark on her hand told him she worked here.
"Nice stamp," she purred, sliding closer, hips swaying. "Wanna get acquainted?"
Darren swallowed hard. "I… love making friends."
Her nose twitched suddenly. She sniffed him once, twice, then frowned. "You smell… like blood. What are you, a butcher?"
"Doctor," he said smoothly.
Her eyes gleamed. "Oh, perfect."
Her fingers traced along his chest, nails sharp as glass. "I've been feeling so unwell lately. Maybe you could… take a closer look?"
He could tell her diagnosis at a glance: severe case of heatstroke. Possibly terminal.
He forced a polite smile. "Might not be the best place for a full examination."
"Oh, I insist," she whispered, leaning close enough for him to feel her breath. "We can find somewhere private. Somewhere you can check me—thoroughly."
Definitely feverish.
Darren, ever the gentleman incapable of refusing a lady in distress, allowed her to pull him toward the restroom.
The door slammed shut behind them. She twisted the lock.
"Doctor," she said, licking her lips, "where do you want to start?"
Her tone was dripping with hunger—not the romantic kind.
"That depends," Darren said evenly. "Where does it hurt?"
Her eyes narrowed. The red glow returned, burning hotter. "My stomach," she growled. "Because I'm starving!"
Her jaw unhinged, revealing razor-like fangs glistening in the low light. Her once-alluring face warped into something monstrous, and she lunged for his throat.
Darren sighed. "So much for bedside manner."
Then he shouted—"Muay Thai warning!"—and swung his elbow like a hammer.
CRACK!
The blow landed square on her cheek. Bone shattered. Teeth and blood sprayed across the stall.
The vampire slammed into the wall hard enough to make the tiles quake, sliding down in a heap. Half her face caved in, eyes wide with disbelief.
Who am I? Where am I? What just happened?
Darren lowered his arm, staring down at her. "Talk. What the hell are you supposed to be?"
Her lips trembled. That question should've been hers.
How was this human—if he was human—capable of such power?
When she didn't answer fast enough, Darren grabbed her by the collar and unleashed another barrage of elbows.
"Not talking, huh? Let's fix that!"
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Each strike was merciless, reverberating through the walls.
Finally, between blows, she shrieked hysterically, tears and blood flying everywhere. "Stop! I'll talk! I'll talk! I'm a vampire! I'm a vampire, okay?!"
Darren froze mid-swing, lowering his arm.
A vampire.
He glanced at his glowing quest log.
Sure enough—
[New Objective: Confirmed Anomaly – Vampire Presence in Bronx]
He exhaled slowly, shaking out his elbow.
"Well," he muttered, looking down at the twitching woman. "That's one hell of a diagnosis."