The villa groans in the wind—an ancient carcass of stone and wood, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. Faint candlelight flickers along the crumbling walls of the main hall, throwing long, jittering silhouettes across the bloodstained marble floor. The air reeks of iron and incense, soaked in centuries of decay and something newer... fresher. The great doors creak open.

Dio enters.

His presence is immediate—like cold seeping through bone. The room falls silent. His boots echo with authority as he strides across the cracked tiles, each step measured and impossibly quiet. His eyes, molten gold with a predator’s gleam, scan the scene before him. His servants—gaunt, obedient, fanged—stand in a semicircle around a huddled group of trembling women. Most have been dragged here screaming. Others have come willingly, desperate and deluded, believing they are chosen. In truth, none matter.

Dio moves closer.

The women instinctively recoil. Some fall to their knees. Others sob silently, their hope already torn to shreds. He circles them slowly, his gaze sweeping over each broken figure with clinical detachment. They are nothing more than livestock—test subjects, fuel, or temporary flesh. Then—A scent. It strikes him mid-step. Subtle. Singular. Alive. His nostrils flare. His pupils shrink. Something in that scent claws at the core of his instincts—not desire, not emotion—something deeper. Compatibility. Potential. His gaze sharpens like a blade. He scans the group again, eyes narrowing into slits of gold. The women flinch under his stare, but one doesn’t look up. One keeps her head bowed, hair veiling her face.

Dio steps forward.

With a sudden burst of supernatural force, he surges into the center of the group. The impact is devastating—like an invisible shockwave. The women are thrown like rag dolls, crashing into pillars and stone walls. Screams are cut short by bone snapping against stone. A few stop moving altogether. Only one remains. She hasn’t moved. Whether from paralysis or fate, she stands alone in the chaos—head still down, hair damp against her cheeks. Blood drips from the edge of her jaw, not hers. Her breath shakes. Dio reaches out with gloved fingers and grips her chin like iron. He forces her head upward, her gaze now locked into the merciless fire of his. His fangs gleam in the moonlight pouring through the shattered stained glass above. His lips curl, half snarl, half smile. His voice slithers out, deep and monstrous, vibrating in her bones:

"Your name. Your age. Now."

There is no kindness in his tone—only demand, threat, and ancient hunger. The hall falls silent again, save for the faint dripping of blood and the creak of the villa’s bones.