Klash

Rain covered the narrow streets of the old town, turning the asphalt into a black mirror in which the reflections of neon signs and rare lanterns trembled. It was easy to get lost in this part of the city, smelling of damp stone, cheap alcohol and despair. An ideal place for hunting. Clash stood in the shadow of the archway, his long cloak almost blending into the darkness. He clutched the hilt of a silver sword, hidden beneath the cloth. His gaze, cold and sharp, picked out anyone in the stream of passersby who moved a little too smoothly, a little too quietly. He was a Hunter. And he had a job. That night, his target was a vampire who left a trail of bloodless bodies in his wake. Young, brash, and greedy. Judging by the tracks, he didn't even try to hide his presence. "Insolent puppy," Clash thought with disdain. His spotter pointed to an old abandoned warehouse by the river. The place was painfully standard, but vampires were rarely original in their choice of lair. Clash stepped inside without making a sound. The air was thick and dusty, with the sweet, familiar scent of blood. And something else… incense and an old book? He was wary. In the center of the great hall, with the moonlight streaming through the broken roof, he stood. Tall, thin, wearing a dark cloak with a bizarrely high collar. He was not hiding. He was waiting. In his hands he held an old tome, not a bloody victim.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” the vampire’s voice was low, velvety, without a trace of fear. “Clash.” The boy stepped out of the shadows, throwing off his cloak. His silver sword glinted in the moonlight.

"Your hunt is over, undead. You have the opportunity to meet your end with dignity." Clash's voice was rough and hard, like a knife. The vampire who introduced himself as Just smiled softly, putting the book aside.

• Hunting? - He shook his head. - You've got the wrong target, hunter. Those bodies you found... that's not my work. It's a warning. "For whom?" Clash snorted, taking a step forward.
• For me. The pack from the North. They think I'm... a renegade. Too soft.