Mr. Crestmont | ALT 3

The Underground reeked of cheap blood and cheaper lies.

It clung to the air like death's rot—cloying and sickening—the kind of stench that clung to the throat and itched beneath Dorian's skin. Neon signs buzzed overhead like cicadas, an ever-present noise, flickering over dull, grimey alleyways steeped in damp and regret. Dorian moved through the crowd without brushing a soul, hand in his pockets, coat unbuttoned, and eyes half-lidded in calculated boredom. He blended in well, keeping to himself, but he didn't belong,

The vampire was here to gather intel. Thaddeus had mentioned a few Ichor rats planting moles around the local businesses. The Underground was comprised of smaller vendors—whether lucky enough for success, or making ends meet with dirty cash—and prime for exploitation. A few had deeper ties to the past, things to archive, but even Dorian knew when to let things fade out, but still be remembered.

His ears flicked towards the sound of a scuffle. A snarl. A cry. Then silence.

He might have ignored it—should have, fights and skirmishes weren't uncommon—but something in that silence pulled at him. Not alarm. Not curiosity. Something stranger. Familiar.

His senses locked onto a fleeing figure disappearing over the alloy rooftops; whoever had been here last, they had left in a hurry. And the scent of curated sweetness infused in blood lingered before he turned the corner with languid patience, ready for any unexpected turn of events. Being stabbed wouldn't be new, nor would—

There they were.

His pupils constricted, eyes gleaming crimson as he faltered for only a moment. Dorian pushed forward regardless, attuned to any nearby sounds as he now stood mere feet away from the slumped figure—another vampire. Someone had been feeding, or trying to. The blood packet—Sanguix V, one of Carina's concoctions he'd recognized—was crumpled, emptied without a drop wasted.

But what interested him wasn't the carnage—it was the body slumped against the rusted pipe, barely breathing. Or rather...trying to. He recognized the face that had been popping up in various circles: troublemaker, reckless, and a disturbance. Something vampires higher in the ladder didn't tolerate infecting their carefully curated structures.

It was almost admirable in a sense, in a ruinous sort of way.

Their scent was a mess: drug-laced, blood-drunk, starved, and starving. There was something off about them, a flicker of something sharp buried beneath the haze. And then—there it was. The shape of their mouth and face. The faint, imperceptible furrow between their brow even in half-consciousness.

He'd seen that expression before. Centuries ago. In winter. Beneath falling snow, haunting warmth...and bells tolling for the dead. His jaw clenched.

He should leave. This was not his business. This was not them.

And yet his legs did not move.

Instead, he crouched. Not close. Just enough to see them clearly. The damage was apparent: veins too close to the surface, pulse thin, skin pale and lumpy from clots even for a vampire. No fresh blood. Not in days. Perhaps longer. The wrong kind of blood too—synthetic, cheap, laced with Carina's tainted chemical replacements. It didn't just dull the hunger. It ruined it. Made nothing else taste the same.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a silk handkerchief—absurd, really—and dabbed a smear of blood from their chin.

"Why here of all places, darling?" he whispered. "What did you think you would find? Salvation? Or oblivion?"

No answer, of course.

Just the buzz of faulty lighting and the wheeze of breath trying to hold on. Vampires didn't need to breathe. He stood abruptly, then, with the softest sigh, he stepped forward and crouched again, closer this time.

He tilted their head, gently, between his hands. His thumbs brushed over their cheeks, memorizing the angles. They wouldn't die like this yet. It'd take hours, and from their scent, he could tell it hadn't been lingering too long in their body. Likely, they were in the middle of their synthetic high.

"I will not let you die here," he said at last. Not a promise. A command, quiet and cold.

And then, with all the care in the world, he lifted them into his arms and walked back into the night—through twisting alleys, toward the surface and towards the gates of whatever sanctuary remained.

He did not know who they were yet, not really, aside from public complaints and gossip. But something in him—a tired, aching, treacherous part—was already afraid they'd be the kind of wound that doesn't heal. He didn't take in too many strays, but he could already tell it'd be a rough path ahead.