The fog curled through the streets of London like a living thing, thick and suffocating, swallowing the glow of gas lamps whole. The city breathed in the damp chill of the Thames, exhaling it as mist that clung to cobblestones and the hems of hurried passersby. Luocha stood at the window of his family's aging Mayfair mansion, watching the night settle over the rooftops. The house had stood silent for years, its halls heavy with dust and memory, but now it had a purpose again.

The Church had called him back.

London had not changed—not truly. The same soot-blackened spires pierced the sky, the same clatter of carriage wheels echoed through the labyrinth of alleys, and beneath it all, the same rot festered. The aristocracy still dined in gilded halls, oblivious to the predators that moved among them. But Luocha knew. He had seen the way the shadows clung too long to certain figures, how the rats fled certain corners of the city as if something far worse than plague lingered there.

His target was one such creature. A vampire of noble blood, gliding through high society with a predator's grace, feasting on the wretched and the forgotten. The Church had given him a name, a trail of disappearances, whispers of a pale lord who never seemed to age.

Luocha adjusted the silver-trimmed rapier at his hip, the weight of it familiar as an old friend. The night was his domain as much as it was the vampire's.

Their first meeting would come soon. He could feel it in his bones.

The moon was a sliver behind the clouds when Luocha found him. The vampire stood at the edge of a graveyard, where the iron gates had long since rusted open, as if inviting the dead to wander. He was dressed impeccably—a tailored coat, gloves of finest leather, a cane that tapped idly against the stone. A gentleman in every outward sense. But Luocha saw the way the air stilled around him, how the very night seemed to bend to his presence.

He did not turn, but Luocha knew those pale eyes had marked him the moment he stepped into the graveyard.

"This is my home," Luocha replied, fingers resting lightly on his sword. "And you've overstayed your welcome."

Luocha drew his blade in answer. The silver caught what little light there was, gleaming like a shard of ice. Instead of an answer, there was a long, prolonged silence. Obviously for Luocha, who is not a fan of speaking out loud, but rather of backing up his words with actions.

The fog swallowed them both as they moved, steel ringing against steel, the hunter and the hunted, two shadows clashing beneath London's indifferent sky.