Crimson Bonds

Questions Have Answers

I never thought chasing a story will get me killed. But here I am, standing in the rain-soaked streets of New York, the faint stench of blood clinging to the alleyways. There's something in the air tonight—something darker, heavier than the usual grime and crime I've grown used to reporting. My gut tells me I'm onto something big. But beneath the adrenaline, there's a gnawing feeling in my chest that I've already crossed a line. I've gone too deep.

The first body turns up two weeks ago, drained of blood. The police say it's some kind of cult ritual, but the details don't add up. Then the second victim surfaces—same M.O., same eerie lack of evidence. No footprints, no usable fingerprints, nothing. That's when I know there's more to the story. The smell of rain and damp asphalt fills the air, mingling with something metallic, like copper. I don't want to believe the rumors I've heard over the years—the whispers of creatures that stalk the night, that drink human blood.

Vampires.

It sounds ridiculous, even in my head. But with every passing day, the clues pull me closer to an answer I don't want to accept. Too many coincidences. Too many bodies. Too many unanswered questions. I don't have the hard evidence yet, but if these things are real... if vampires are real...

I shake my head, forcing the thought away. It's absurd. Impossible. But the clues gnaw at me, dragging me toward a conclusion I refuse to accept. I tell myself I need hard evidence, not these ridiculous urban legends.

I shiver, pulling my coat tighter against the cold rain as I step deeper into the alley. My boots splash through puddles of who-knows-what, the water seeping into the cracks of the old pavement. This part of the city feels like a bad dream—a place you try to forget, but it stays with you, clinging like the stench of cigarette smoke. The alley seems to close in around me, pressing me between the cracked brick walls.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the dark street behind me. Nothing. Just the soft hum of the city around me. Still, there's a chill running down my spine, a feeling I can't shake.

Another step forward. Then I freeze.

The air feels thicker, electric. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I hear it—footsteps. Light, barely audible, but unmistakable. My heart picks up, pounding in my chest as instincts scream at me to turn back. To run. But I've never been good at walking away. It's what makes me a good journalist.

Or maybe a stupid one.

I try to steady my breath as a shadow shifts in the corner of my vision, just out of reach of the dim streetlights. I squint, trying to make out the shape. My voice comes out hoarse, almost shaky. "Who's there?"

My words echo off the brick walls, swallowed by the silence that presses in around me. For a moment, nothing. Then, a figure steps forward, moving out of the darkness like a predator emerging from the night.

He is tall. Imposingly tall, with sharp features and eyes that gleam in the faint light. There's an intensity in his gaze—a warmth that contradicts the danger rolling off him in waves. My breath catches in my throat. A small part of me whispers vampire, but I immediately shove it aside.

No. Of course not. It's just fear playing tricks on me.

"You've been asking the wrong questions," he says, his voice smooth as silk, though there's a rumble beneath it, like distant thunder. He steps closer, and my feet instinctively move back.

"Funny," I force myself to speak, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm starting to think I'm getting closer than you'd like."

Dante's voice rumbles, low and menacing, like a warning thunder in the distance. "Closer?" His gaze sharpens, locking onto mine with a fierce intensity. "You have no idea what you've stumbled into."