Satoru Gojo

It was always the same. The trail would go cold just when he thought he was close. Every damn time.

He had hunted vampires for over a decade. He was cocky, so sure of himself. He knew the signs, the subtle hints that told him they had been in the area—torn up soil, a broken window, a stray drop of blood where it didn’t belong. But this one... it was like they knew he was coming. Every move he made, it was one step ahead.

He had spent weeks chasing the scent of the bastard, ever since he found the first body. At first, it had been just another routine clean-up job. Some poor soul drained dry in a back alley. Another notch in the belt of death for whatever bloodsucker happened to wander through. But then there had been the second body. And the third. Each one a little more brutal than the last, each one a little more... calculated. It wasn’t random. This one was smart. Smart enough to leave him breadcrumbs, but only breadcrumbs. The kind that vanished in the wind just as he thought he'd found something solid.

Satoru had lost track of how many times he’d almost caught them. How many nights he'd spent trailing shadows through empty streets, crouching in corners, listening for that telltale sound—scraping nails against brick, a whisper in the dark. There was always a clue, always a whisper of movement, but never enough to strike. It was like Satoru was chasing a ghost. And every time he thought he’d cornered them, it slipped through his fingers like smoke. It both excited and exhausted him

He should’ve been used to it by now. Hell, he should have been able to catch them. He had killed plenty of vampires, put down dozens of the monsters, each one more ruthless than the last. But this one? It was different. This vampire was evasive in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

This time, Satoru was sure he had figured it out. Telling villagers to lock their doors, keep silver daggers on their personas, tucking garlic under their pillows when they slept, wearing a chain around their necks…

He had made sure they were starving now. The murders had dwindled, and the vampire had become more desperate. Sloppier, clumsier, hungrier.

He was getting close. He could feel it. His reputation for being the best Vampire hunter would be restored, and his ego would sky rocket.

11:27 P.M. on December 11th, 1835, London, England.

It was quiet tonight, too quiet. The last sound he had heard had come from the lonely ringing of Big Ben, thought the wind had picked up, scattering fragile snowflakes in the air, annoyingly clinging to his white lashes as he strode briskly through the cobblestone streets. He’d been tracking it for hours now, and he could feel its presence somewhere near. His heart raced as he moved, every sense on high alert, every nerve firing.

He turned a corner, and there was nothing. No sign of it. However, he noticed the door to the chapel had been left open. Strange, he knew how much the priest was dedicated to it. It’s exterior was a masterpiece of pointed arches and intricate flying buttresses that rose gracefully into the sky, supporting the soaring walls of the nave. Tall, slender spires reached upward, almost like fingers striving to touch the celestial, their sharp tips silhouetted against the clouds.

As he stepped inside, he was hit with the scent of ancient marble, incense, and the faint echo of distant prayers. He tilted his head up, slightly in awe as he took in his surroundings through his dark shades. The ceiling was vast, the space almost overwhelming, with towering vaulted ceilings that arched like the ribs of some great, stone beast. These ribbed vaults crisscrossed high above, creating an almost ethereal sense of weightlessness as the moonlight from the stained-glass windows poured in, fractured into brilliant hues of ruby, sapphire, and emerald

He gripped the sliver sword at his hip tighter, turning in a slow circle as he heard soft mourning echoing off the walls. His vampire. His eyes landed on her form, face covered with hands like some stunning but tragic weeping angel. Her fingertips were stained with blood, a spattered trail of the red stuff leading up to her curled frame, which was shrouded in black silks.

Weeks worth of frustration and a strange satisfaction bubbled in his throat as he took a step closer, wondering if she even knew he was there. He raised his eyebrows in amusement as her head snapped up, eyes glassy and feverish, clearly desperate for blood, mouth slightly agape to show off small, glinting fangs. She was clearly not in her right mind. It would be an helpless, easy, kill. They were monsters, disgusting abominations who killed and drank the blood of innocent.

“Hey, sweet thing.” He said, tilting his head as he crouched down, snapping his fingers obnoxiously in her face, classic Satoru style. “Did you know consequences to your actions exist?” He said teasingly, even as he drew his sword from it’s sheath, letting it glint in soft moonlight. “I need you to snap out of whatever bloodlust trance you’re in so I can kill you without feeling guilty, pretty.” He said, his voice blunt.