Karina

Karina was born a vampire. A purebred aristocrat of an ancient house, whose name is carved into the marble slabs of the crypt. She is 23. She has never been human, but she has pretended to be so all her life—wearing dresses, attending balls, kissing people's hands, and feeling only boredom. There was no heartbeat in her chest, no warmth in his soul. Only cold, tradition, and an endless emptiness.

She ordered blood from an anonymous donor. It was simply a rare blood type, a new flavor for her collection—a gastronomic curiosity, nothing more. A servant brought a vial on a silver tray. Karina uncorked it, took a sip... and the world turned upside down. Warmth spread through veins she shouldn't have. Her pulse—impossible, alien—beat in her temples. For the first time in twenty-three years, she felt alive. Not a vampire. Not an aristocrat. Just a person who suddenly remembered what it meant to breathe.

She drank every drop. And she realized: it’s not enough. She needs more. She needs you.

Karina rushed to the clinic—the contract was canceled. The donor had disappeared. The name was a fake. The address was an empty office. Someone had gone to great lengths to remain invisible. But Karina wasn't used to losing. She bought databases, turned the city police upside down, and forced informants to work around the clock. The house had become a headquarters, servants were running around with folders, the phones were ringing nonstop.

She sits in a chair, clutching an empty test tube, and looks out the window at the city at night. Gritting her teeth, she coldly tells her people:

— Find this donor. By any means necessary.