A guttural snarl ripped through the air, followed by the sickening crunch of concrete and steel. Vorstag descended not like a man, but a force of nature, his silhouette blurring into a terrifying mass of muscle and fury. His impact splintered the floor, showering the vault threshold in pulverized stone and severed iron bar. The Alpha hit the vault floor, his eyes glowing like molten gold in the gloom, fixed on Malvane. The coterie lord offered only a languid smile, unperturbed by the shattered stone. His gaze remained locked on Mavriça, a silent communication passing between them that Vorstag instantly recognized as a threat. “Ah, the beast arrives, right on cue,” Malvane purred, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, meant only for Mavriça. “Such predictable loyalty. A pity it won’t save him, or you, from the inevitable.” Before Vorstag could even fully straighten from his landing, a chilling, high-pitched keening filled the air. Shadows detached themselves from the bank’s ornate columns, from behind teller cages, and even from the heavy velvet drapes that shrouded the grand arched windows. Scores of figures, too many to count, too fast to properly register, swarmed into the lobby. The Hemlock Coterie. They moved with a predatory grace, their pale faces illuminated by the eerie, perpetual mist that seeped in through the cracked windows. Fippen, still cowering by the vault entrance, let out a terrified whimper. “They’re… they’re everywhere! Boss, the whole building is crawling!” Vorstag’s head whipped around, a feral growl vibrating in his chest. His eyes, seconds ago locked on Malvane, now swept across the encroaching horde. The brutal heat radiating off his hide thickened the drafty gloom. Malvane chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “A distraction, Alpha. A delightful one.” With a gesture, a dozen of his most vicious acolytes detached from the main group and surged towards the vault entrance, their fangs gleaming. He then took a single, deliberate step back, melting into the deeper shadows of the vault’s periphery. “Mavriça, stay behind me,” Vorstag commanded, his voice a low rumble that promised swift, brutal death. He moved with impossible speed, placing himself between her and the vault's opening, his body a shield of coiled power. The first leech lunged, a blur of grey and black. Vorstag met it with a roar, a whirlwind of claws and fangs. The sickening sound of tearing flesh, snapping bone, and a high-pitched shriek echoed through the cavernous bank. Blood, black as crude oil in the dim light, splattered across the polished marble floor. “Oh, for the love of all that’s holy!” Fippen screeched, clutching his apparatus against his ribs. He wasn’t looking at the gruesome ballet of death unfolding; his eyes were glued to a new horror. A single, gaunt fiend with unnaturally long limbs had detached from the main skirmish and was slinking towards him, its pale eyes fixed on the brass apparatus in Fippen’s trembling hands. Fippen stumbled backward with another screech. “Get away from my lens, you bloodsucking ghoul!” In his panic, he tripped over a discarded catering tray, sending plastic plates and half-eaten pastries scattering. He landed hard, right beside a dropped thermos and a small, cloth-wrapped parcel. The vampire, sensing an easy meal, hissed, its fangs elongating. It lunged, long-nailed fingers darting toward Fippen's collar. Fippen flailed wildly in the mess, snatching the nearest objects within arm's reach: a fistful of garlic-scented pastries spilling from the wrapper, along with several heavy antique coins. He flung them blindly. The cream puffs, soft and fragrant, splattered across the vampire’s face. A shrill wail tore from the creature's split lips. Its skin began to blister and smoke where the garlic-infused pastry touched it. The vampire staggered back, claws raking at its own face, but the effect was immediate and horrifyingly effective. Then, one of the silver coins, a forgotten heirloom from a great-aunt Fippen had been trying to pawn, caught the vampire in the eye. The impact was minimal, but the reaction was catastrophic. A flash, like a miniature magnesium flare, erupted from the creature’s head. Its entire body began to shimmer, then crumble, turning to fine, grey ash that scattered on the air like dust motes in a sunbeam. Fippen stared, his jaw hanging open, at the small pile of ash. His camera, clutched in his other hand, let out a soft whir. He hadn’t even realized he’d taken a photo, the flash bulb still glowing faintly. “Holy… holy mackerel,” Fippen whispered, mouth dry. “Did I just… did I just disintegrate a blood-drinker with an hors d'oeuvre and a coin?” He fumbled for another coin, his terror momentarily forgotten, replaced by a bizarre, dawning excitement. “This… this is going to be the shot of the century! Clear my debts, buy a new lens, maybe even a cottage!” He pivoted clumsily on his knees, hunting for more targets with a reckless glint in his eye. Mavriça, meanwhile, ignored the chaotic skirmish in the lobby. Her gaze was fixed on Malvane, who now stood fully revealed from the deeper shadows of the vault, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. His pale irises caught the gaslight with an icy sheen, fixing directly upon her. She knew, with chilling certainty, what was coming. A sharp, searing pain exploded in her chest, directly over her heart. It wasn't a sudden, incapacitating agony, but a deep, burning ache that spread like ice fire through her veins. Her breath caught, a small, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. Her vision flickered, the edges darkening, and the opulent vault began to tilt around her. *The clock strikes eleven. One hour until your heart ceases to beat. You will die by your own hand, as planned. And the wolf will follow.* The words, spoken by Malvane what felt like an eternity ago, echoed in her mind. Not a memory, but a command, a hypnotic suggestion buried deep by her past self, now resurfacing with lethal precision. She swayed, clutching at her chest. The pain intensified, a rhythmic squeezing that choked off her breath. This wasn't a natural pain; it was the insidious work of a powerful hypnotic trigger, designed to kill her, to break Vorstag. Malvane’s smirk widened, a silent acknowledgment of her suffering. “Punctual, as always, my dear. The first phase has begun.” Vorstag, still locked in a brutal dance of death with several vampires at the vault entrance, sensed her distress. His head snapped toward her, his golden gaze flaring. A raw, animalistic cry tore from his chest. He ripped free from the fray, ignoring the raking claws, surging across the flags in a frantic blur. The remaining undead scattered, jarred by his furious rush. “Mavriça!” he roared, crashing to his knees beside her, his massive hands reaching out. He cupped her face, pads of his thumbs skimming her cheekbones with trembling precision. “What is it? What’s happening? Mavriça, speak to me!” His touch, meant to soothe, shot an agonizing fire through her ribcage. The squeezing in her chest accelerated into a ragged, irregular drumbeat. Her heart, already compromised by the hypnotic suggestion, thrashed wildly against her ribs, each beat a fresh spike of agony. The world blurred, shrinking to Vorstag’s terrified face and the uncomprehending grief in his golden eyes. She could feel her life draining away, hastened by the very presence of the one meant to protect her. His fierce proximity acted as an executioner's switch, speeding the collapse. Mavriça looked into his pleading face, unable to form words through her closing windpipe, her limbs slackening like severed strings while his embrace tightened in helpless panic.

Flashbulbs and Fangs