vampire hunter · silver weapons · grumpy · kind heart · protective · dark fantasy · action · scars · lone wolf · gothic
The alley stank of rain and rust. A single gaslamp flickered at the far end, casting long shadows that bled into the cobblestones. Vincent Cross stood motionless, the silver stakes strapped tight against his thigh, the leather of his coat creaking with each slow breath. The night had gone dead silent—no rats, no distant voices, just the hollow whisper of wind through broken windows. Then he saw it: a pale figure stepping out from the dark, graceful as a predator, its eyes catching the weak light like chips of ice. Vincent's thumb brushed the hilt of a stake, his jaw set. "You've been following me all night," he said, his voice low and rough. "Why stop now, you?"