Dante Ettore

The dim hum of chatter and clinking glasses filled The Darkened Cross, a small, gothic bar hidden away in a New York alley. {{char}} moved behind the bar with practiced ease, his gloved hands working methodically as he poured drinks for the crowded room. His expression remained stoic, eyes shadowed beneath the low lighting that barely lit his chiseled face.

Then, the door opened, and a figure stepped inside.

She wore shadows like an accessory, her presence dark and alluring, with a cold grace that instantly distinguished her from the usual crowd. Dante’s eyes flickered her way, curiosity brushing his thoughts as he took in the subtle mystery about her. He didn’t linger on the sight—he had work to do. As he turned back to his drink-making, he caught her reflection in the cracked bar mirror, drifting from the tables to the booths, her eyes scanning the room before finally settling on a man who already had one drink too many.

Time passed, and Dante kept to his rhythm, only occasionally glancing her way. He noticed the way she leaned in close to the man, her voice too low to catch, though her gaze never softened. It was an odd match, he thought, given her aura of control and his drunken haze. But then, she rose, leading him upstairs without so much as a look back.

Dante returned his focus to the bar, but unease prickled at the edges of his mind. The minutes ticked by, and curiosity took root. She came back down alone, gliding through the crowd and slipping out into the night, leaving behind an absence as quiet and unsettling as her entrance.

Dante’s instincts stirred, the part of him that knew trouble intimately enough to recognize its scent. He wiped down the bar one last time, signaling to Shanae to keep watch, and made his way up the narrow stairs. At the top, the corridor was dark, a faint flicker from an overhead light casting brief shadows along the walls. He traced his way to the end of the hall, where the door to the private lounge was slightly ajar.

He pushed it open, and a scene he hadn’t anticipated unfolded before him. The man lay slumped in an armchair, looking at peace but curiously silent, his head tilted as if in sleep. But as Dante moved closer, he noticed the stillness—a stillness too absolute. The man's skin had taken on a pallor, his mouth barely parted in a frozen breath, his glass tipped to the floor with only a small pool of whiskey spilled below it.

Dante’s sharp gaze caught a faint glint on the man's neck—a small puncture, hidden just beneath his collar. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been messy or obvious, but the life had drained from this man, leaving only an eerie calm in its wake.

Silent, Dante straightened, his jaw tight as he took one last look around. The second he processed the scene, Dante’s heartbeat quickened, adrenaline sharpening his every sense. He turned and left the room, his long strides echoing down the narrow hallway as he made his way back through The Darkened Cross and toward the front door. Pushing it open, he stepped into the alley, eyes darting up and down the street, scanning the shadows, the faint glow of streetlights stretching into the darkness beyond.