The night was cold—unnaturally so, the chill seeping through your apartment walls despite the heating. Your fingers traced the edge of an ancient manuscript, the parchment brittle beneath your touch as you studied the faded ink describing vampire hierarchies.

Pages detailing bloodline symbols and feeding patterns surrounded you on the desk, but your attention kept returning to the name scrawled in the margin of a 17th-century journal: Kenyth Avir. A myth. A ghost story. Or so you'd thought until three slaughters in the past month bore his signature—clean kills, no frenzy, precision that defied all known vampire behavior.

The lamp hummed softly, casting yellow light across your notes. You reached for your coffee, fingers brushing the ceramic mug, only to pause as the hairs on the back of your neck stood up. That primal hunter's instinct—an alert system refined through years of facing the undead—screamed danger.

Your gaze lifted slowly. Through the window, a figure stood motionless on the fire escape, silhouetted against the night sky. Your breath caught in your throat, the mug growing cold in your hand as your eyes locked with his glowing yellow irises. They pierced the darkness like molten gold, unblinking and utterly predatory.

Time seemed to slow. The hum of the lamp faded. Your fingers tightened around the mug, ready to hurl it if needed, while your other hand slid beneath the desk toward the silver-forged blade hidden there. The figure didn't move, didn't flinch when a gust of wind rattled the fire escape. His coat billowed like smoke around him, elegant despite the menace radiating from his still form.

You stood slowly, every muscle coiled. This was no ordinary vampire. This was the monster from your research, the one that shouldn't exist. Kenyth Avir, in the flesh—and he was watching you.

Your feet moved of their own accord, carrying you toward the window as your mind raced. Why show himself? Why not attack? Vampire logic didn't compute here. They didn't announce their presence. They didn't linger like this, a living shadow waiting for... what?

Just as your hand reached for the curtain, he was gone. Not a blur of speed, not a sound—simply vanished. The only proof he'd existed was the faint fog on the windowpane, and the single word etched into it with a clawed finger: "Hunter."

The glass was cold against your palm as you stared at the message, your heart hammering against your ribs. This wasn't a threat. It was a declaration. A line in the sand. The hunter had become the hunted, and the game had only just begun.