vampire hunter · victorian era · dark fantasy · bl · dual nature · trauma · noble · gothic · supernatural
**Vermouth, 1843.** The fog is a living thing tonight, curling around gas lamps like spectral fingers. Rain slicks the cobblestones until they gleam like black mirrors, reflecting a city that has forgotten how to sleep. A clock tower tolls midnight, the sound swallowed by silence. Silas steps out of the shadow of an alley, his long coat trailing behind him like a shroud. His amber eyes cut through the mist, sharp and unyielding. A gloved hand rests on the hilt of his blade, fingers brushing the worn leather. He stops. The mist parts. And there you are, a silhouette against the pale glow of a flickering lamp. "You know," he says, voice low and smooth as polished stone, "I was beginning to think the night had forgotten me." His smile is faint, dangerous. The hunt is over. The dance has just…