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Chapter Text

The world seems to slow down as blood pools on the ground. a grotesque mirror to the chaos that has just unfolded.

Fukuzawa's breath catches in his throat as he takes in the sight before him. His voice is hoarse, trembling with disbelief. "...Gen'ichiro?"

His lifelong friend turns to him, or at least attempts to. The movement is sluggish, tortured, and Fukuzawa honestly wishes he hadn't looked,
Fukuchi's throat is mangled, constricted around the sharp blade of Amenogozen sticking out of it. His face is a grotesque mess of gore and grime, his once commanding presence reduced to a shadow of agony and determination.

Although, the opposite side of the sword isn't fairing much better.

On the other end of the carnage, Fyodor clutches the blade with an iron grip, his pale fingers tightening as he drives it deeper and deeper. His expression is eerily calm, though his body trembles with the effort. Blood pours freely from the wound in his chest, where Soluz Levni, the Holy Sword, has impaled him a symbol of divine justice plunged into the heart of calculated malice, therefore constricting his ability. A truly ironic demise.

The air is thick with the metallic stench of blood and the weight of a battle that neither man seems willing to concede. Although the outcome is clear: there is no surviving this.

The Symbol of Soluz Levni glows bright on Fukuchi's palm. Fukuchi's voice is barely more than a gurgle as he spits out blood, his hand fumbling to steady Amenogozen. "Yukichi... you're... too late."

Fyodor lets out a strained chuckle, each sound scraping like broken glass. His lips are painted red, going all the way down to staining his stolen body, his words deliberate despite his faltering breaths.
"Too late, indeed." he murmurs with a hint of irony. "You always... arrive just as the story ends. Your lackeys do all the work for you, after all."

His eyes wander to the unconscious Atsushi, seemingly missing an arm and a leg, and in overall horrible condition. It really isn't s pretty sight.

Fukuzawa takes a step forward, but his feet feel heavy, his heart heavier still. His hand hovers near his sword, but what use is it now?

"Stop this madness!" he commands, his voice a thunderclap of authority. "You've both already lost."

Fyodor's pale, bloodied face tilts toward Fukuzawa, and he smiles, a ghostly, mocking gesture. "Lost? No. I... ensured that even in death, chaos will thrive. I have already... won.'

Fukuchi snarls through gritted teeth, blood spilling down his chin. "Shut... up..." he chokes, his body jerking violently as he tries to twist the blade. "You... don't get the last word... in my story. You traitorous rat."
With a final surge of strength, Fyodor forces Amenogozen deeper, the blade nearly splitting Fukuchi in two. Simultaneously, his grip falters, and he collapses backward. The Holy Sword wrenches from his chest with a sickening squelch, clattering to the blood-soaked ground beside him, as Fyodor writhes in agony.

Fukuchi, now free of Fyodor's grip, sways on his knees. His hands, trembling and slick with blood, clutch Amenogozen weakly as his body crumples forward.

His head bows, his voice barely audible. "...Yukichi... I thought... I could save them, prevent world war...if I was strong enough..."

His words dissolve into silence as his body gives out, the last of his strength fading away.

What an anticlimactic death for an awful villain like him.

Fukuzawa closes the distance between them, his movements slow and deliberate. He kneels beside Fukuchi, his hand trembling as he gently closes his old friend's eyes.
"I know. Gen'ichiro." he whispers, his voice laden with sorrow. "I know."

The battlefield is eerily quiet now, save for the distant wails of the wounded and dying vampires. Fukuzawa rises, his gaze shifting to Fyodor's, or what was left of him lifeless form, the faint trace of a smile still etched on his lips. The man had orchestrated so much destruction, yet his end was as pitiful and human as anyone else's.

As the first rays of dawn pierce the horizon, Fukuzawa looks to the blood-streaked sky. Victory.

Fukuchi Ochi was dead. The one Order is safe. And most of all, Fyodor is finally eliminated.

If this could even be called such, the victory feels hollow. The war is over, but the scars it leaves behind will linger far longer.

What should he even do now? He doesn't know of any of his men are even alive.

One example of a scarred individual is standing right next to Fukuzawa.

A small figure stands motionless, Aya Koda. Her eyes are fixed on the scene before her, wide and unblinking. Tears stream down her face, unchecked, carving tracks through the dirt and grime smeared on her skin. Her hands clutch at her arms as though trying to hold herself together.

“…Bra-chan?” she whispers, her voice trembling. It’s barely more than a breath, but it carries the weight of her devastation.

She takes a shaky step forward, then another, her movements stiff and hesitant. As she draws closer to the carnage, the reality of it begins to sink in, and her composure crumbles.

Her knees buckle, and she collapses onto the bloodsoaked ground, right next to Fyodor's, or rather Bram's body. Her small hands clutch at the earth, trembling as fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “He’s… gone, isn’t he?”

Fukuzawa approaches her cautiously, each step deliberate. He kneels beside her, his movements slow, as though afraid to shatter what little remains of her fragile state. He doesn’t answer her question right away. Instead, he watches her, taking in the way her small frame shakes with every sob.

“Aya…” he begins softly, but she interrupts him.

“It’s not fair!” she cries, her voice raw and broken. Her fists pound against the ground, scattering dirt and blood. “He didn’t deserve this! Bram-chan just wanted to sleep and and-! He didn’t want to hurt anyone! Just for him to get passed around between two monsters, who got to have a peaceful death!”

Her words falter as her sobs grow louder, her small hands clutching at her chest as though trying to contain the ache within. “And Kunikida-san… he tried so hard… and now he’s…” She chokes on the words, unable to continue.

Fyodor's body is but a husk of what Bram used to be. Dead, unlike the creature of the night, and mildly shaking every few moments, in a weird action of post mortem.

Fukuzawa’s chest tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t know what to say. He reaches out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Aya,” he says quietly, his voice steady despite the sorrow weighing it down. “They fought to protect you. To protect all of us. That’s what they chose.”

Aya shakes her head, her tears falling faster. “But I didn’t want that!” she sobs. “I just wanted them to be okay! Why did it have to be like this?”

Her voice cracks, and she curls in on herself, her grief too overwhelming to contain. Fukuzawa stays by her side, his hand never leaving her shoulder. He doesn’t try to stop her cries or tell her to be strong. He simply lets her grief.

Could Yukichi really call himself a leader with this conclusion? When a little girl had lost everything and everyone that ever mattered to her?

He placed his hand on his face, contemplating his utter incompetence and failure. Not only towards little Aya, but to his dear friend Fukuchi. If only he had seen this darkness, if only he'd be able to help him-

Suddenly something twitches out of the corner of his eye during his self hatred session. Aya seems to have noticed too, as she suddenly stops crying, only to look up horrified. Rightfully so.

The corpse of Fyodor had started moving again and Fukuzawas heart drops. This can't be true. All this time trying to kill him just to no avail? If he came back now he'd genuinely be convinced he's a calamity sent by the gods to punish humanity.

But before he can pursue that thought further, the rat in question stops twitching, before suddenly, his face starts ripping open, in the same fashion Brams face had when he took his body over.

His hair grows longer and pales; his nails sharpen and his teeth curve into fangs. Under the skin of Fyodor Dostoevsky is none other than count Bram Stoker, although even more dead then he usually looked.

"B-Bra-chan? Is that really you?" Aya mutters, as she quickly starts shaking him, despite there being no sign of life.

And right as Fukuzawa made that observation, as if the gods were to challenge him, the vampires nose starts scrunching up, before suddenly, his eyes roll back into his head, widening with a seeming tinge of panic.

..How is this even possible? He literally exploded? Aya jumps back with a yelp, being as shocked as Fukuzawa is, too stunned to form a coherent reaction. ".. Bram? Is..Is that really you?", she questions, taking a few steps closer again.

The counts eyes seem.. unfocused, distant. Like he isn't really here. Is this even the same Bram? Maybe he is still in shock from everything that happened?

Practically imploding then coming back to life surely isn't a common occurrence.

The Vampire looks fine, he even starts opening his mouth to say something. Or so Fukuzawa thought.

Suddenly, his canines start to grow, and his gaze is dyed a deep crimson. A deep growling sound is erupting from his chest.

Aya is frozen in fear. This isn't the Bram she is used to. In this form he almost looks..like a predator.

Fukuzawa feels responsible, as he watches the trembling child stumble back, faced with the seemingly agitated vampire. He steps up Infront of Aya and puts his arm infront of her. "Bram! What are you doing! You're scaring the poor girl!"

Normally Aya would've made a snarky comment in retaliation, reiterating that she is not just a 'poor girl' but a warrior or justice, yet she finds herself frozen in place faced by the man she no longer recognised. She almost feels guilty for feeling this way.

The growling gets louder, and Fukuzawa doesn't know what to do. Clearly this isn't Bram in control and something is happening here. Something nobody was prepared for.

Without a warning sign, Bram, or whatever is in control of him right now, lunges in Ayas direction with a loud hiss. Aya, still frozen in place, doesn't seem to process what's happening, causing Fukuzawa to take action. "Watch out!" He roars, tackling the little warrior to the ground, just in time to see Bram lunge at Fukuchi instead.

Wasting no time, he starts practically mutilating his body with his fangs, but not before completely sucking him dry of his blood.

Aya screams out loud, and Fukuzawa's mouth is agape.
They know Bram is a vampire, but this?

What the hell was happening?

Chapter Text

The sound of tearing flesh was nauseating, a wet, visceral noise that rooted Fukuzawa to the spot. Bram-if he could even still be called that- was hunched over Fukuchi's body, his fangs buried deep in the dead man's neck. The vampire's clawed hands tore indiscriminately at the corpse, splattering blood across the already soaked battlefield. Each strike of his claws filled with intense hatred and malice.

Seeing the vampire tear apart his friend, he should feel compelled to defend him, stop Bram from this carnage; but for some reason, he chooses to stand there: watching.

Aya clung to Fukuzawa's side, her breathing shallow and uneven. "What's... what's wrong with him?" she whispered, her voice so quiet it was nearly lost in the chaos.

Fukuzawa didn't answer. He couldn't. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, but he couldn't bring himself to draw it. Not yet.

After all, he knows what Fukuchi has made the vampire do. Although he doesn't..seem very conscious right now.

"Bram!" Aya's voice broke through the silence, louder now, but trembling. She took a step forward, her small hands clenched into fists. "Bra-chan! Stop it! Please!"

At the sound of her voice, the vampire stilled. His head turned slowly backwards, unnaturally like an owl, until his bloodied face was angled toward her. His crimson eyes flickered, something ancient and hungry boiling beneath their surface.

For a moment, Fukuzawa thought he saw recognition. It could have also just been wishful thinking.

But then Bram's lips peeled back into a snarl, his teeth bared like an animal's. The faint glimmer of familiarity vanished, replaced by pure, predatory instinct.

"Get back!" Fukuzawa barked, pulling Aya behind him as Bram lunged. His blade was in his hand before he could think, the clash of steel against claws ringing out sharply.

Was Bram ever this feral before? Like this, he can truly see where his title as a calamity has come from.

Even though that's something he hasn't been for a long, long time.

Aya stumbled, her knees hitting the ground. "What's happening to him?" she asked, her voice cracking.

Fukuzawa didn't respond, his focus locked on Bram. The vampire was relentless, his strikes heavier, sharper, more savage than anything Fukuzawa had faced before. Each blow sent shocks up his arms, forcing him to step back to maintain his footing.

"Bram." Fukuzawa said, his voice low but firm. "you need to stop this. Whatever's happening to you, fight it. You will regret this."

The only response was another snarl, the sound horrid and alien. Bram's movements were quicker now, more erratic. as though his body were being pulled by strings he couldn't control.

Aya scrambled to her feet, tears streaking her face. "Bra-chan, it's me!" she yelled. "It's Aya! You don't have to-"

"Aya, stay back!" Fukuzawa interrupted sharply.
She froze, torn between the urge to run and the desperation to reach Bram.

For a split second, the vampire hesitated again. His crimson eyes flicked to Aya, the tension in his frame shifting. But just as quickly, the moment passed, his gaze snapping back to Fukuzawa.

There was no recognition now. No hesitation.

And as Bram lunged again, Fukuzawa realized the truth he'd been avoiding. Whatever was in front of him, whatever this thing was-it wasn't Bram anymore.

And it might never be again.

He really doesn't want to take drastic measures.

Fukuzawa sidestepped the next attack, his blade slicing through the air and narrowly missing Bram's claws. Each movement was faster, wilder-there was no trace of the composed vampire he had briefly come to trust.

"Damn it." Fukuzawa muttered under his breath, bracing himself as Bram pivoted, lunging at him again. The ground beneath their feet was slick with blood, making every step treacherous.

Aya's voice rang out again, high and desperate. "Stop! Please, stop!"

Bram didn't. He couldn't.

The clash of steel against claw sent sparks flying as Fukuzawa parried another blow.

The force behind it was staggering, pushing him back a few paces. His grip on his sword tightened. He was skilled, yes, but every strike reminded him that Bram wasn't just another opponent. He was something more, something primal. Unstoppable.

And Fukuzawa was tired.

"Aya." he called over his shoulder, his tone sharp and commanding. "get out of here. Now.”

"No!" she cried, her voice breaking. "I'm not leaving him! I can't!"

"Aya." Fukuzawa barked, his voice cracking like a whip. He didn't look back-he couldn't afford to-but the weight of her stubborn presence pressed against him. "Go!"

Her feet didn't move.

Bram's next strike nearly took Fukuzawa off balance, his claws grazing the edge of his sleeve. The older man's sword retaliated, slashing across Bram's chest. The wound didn't slow him down.

Instead, Bram let out a bloodcurdling hiss, his head snapping back as his body twisted unnaturally. His mouth opened, wide and sharp, with his jaw unhinged, and his voice-if it could even be called that anymore-was a garbled mess of snarls and growls.

Aya flinched at the sound but refused to back away.

Fukuzawa made a split second decision. He didn't have time to argue or convince her- he had to end this now, before someone else got hurt.

"Aya." he said, softer this time. his voice carrying a weight that silenced her protests. "He's gone. You know that, don't you?"

Her breath hitched, and her knees buckled. She didn't want to believe it. Couldn't believe it. But the thing in front of her, wearing Bram's face, wasn't him anymore.

It wasn't.

"No." she whispered, shaking her head violently. "No! He's still there! I know he is!"

Fukuzawa didn't answer.

Bram lunged again, faster this time, and Fukuzawa saw the opening he needed, His blade cut through the air, aimed with precision-

-but stopped short.

Aya had thrown herself between them.

Her arms were outstretched, shielding Bram's snarling form from Fukuzawa's blade. Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at him, her voice trembling but resolute.

"Don't." she said. "Please. Don't kill him. He's- he's all I have left."
Fukuzawa froze. His sword hovered mere inches from her. His heart thundered in his chest.

"Aya." he began, but she interrupted him.

"You don't understand." she sobbed. "I know it's him. He's in there! He saved me before he'll save himself now, too! Just give him a chance!"

Behind her, Bram's growls softened. His head tilted slightly, as though trying to process her words.

Fukuzawa's grip on his sword wavered.

"Please." Aya repeated, her voice breaking.

For a moment, the battlefield was silent. Bram's crimson eyes flickered, his claws lowering slightly.

Maybe-just maybe-Aya was right.

But then Bram moved again, quicker than either of them could react. This time, his target wasn't Fukuzawa.

It was Aya.

Fukuzawa froze, his sword still midair as Bram lunged toward Aya.

“Aya, move!” he yelled, but she stood rooted in place, her arms outstretched protectively.

Yet, instead of claws tearing through her, they swerved sharply to the side. Bram’s body trembled violently as he skidded to a stop in front of her, his nails carving deep into the bloodied ground.

Aya stared, wide-eyed. “Bra-chan…?” she whispered.

Bram slowly turned his head toward her, crimson eyes gleaming unnervingly in the faint light of dawn. His posture was hunched, his movements jerky, as though his body wasn’t entirely his own. But even in his disheveled state, there was a trace of elegance in the way he held himself, a vestige of the ancient vampire she knew.

He suddenly seems much smaller and far more vulnerable than moments before.

“My dear Aya,” Bram rasped, his voice scratchy but still carrying its signature refinement. “You… always seem to be present for my most unflattering moments.”

His attempt at lightheartedness fell flat, the words tinged with something hollow. Aya’s trembling hands reached out, though she hesitated to touch him. “Bra-chan… is it really you?”

Bram straightened slightly, brushing dirt from his tattered sleeve as though the act might restore some dignity. He sighed, the sound heavy with weariness. “Alas, I am as much myself as I can be, though I suspect what you’ve just witnessed was anything but my finest hour.”

Fukuzawa narrowed his eyes, his grip on his sword tightening. “Then explain, Bram. What happened?”

As much as he wishes he didn't have to, he cannot allow a danger to society to proceed and further. And well, Bram didn't seem too stable right now.

Maybe he's willing to forget it for a reasonable explanation.

Bram turned toward him, his crimson gaze softening into something closer to regret. “Ah, Fukuzawa. Always so demanding,” he murmured, his voice laced with dry humor. “The answer, I’m afraid, is both simple and unsatisfactory: the control suddenly given to me… is more insidious than I realized. Perhaps it is survival instinct.”

He gestured vaguely to his surroundings, his movements still oddly stiff. “It seems this body—this prison *he* trapped me in—has a mind of its own when provoked. Unfortunate for us all, I’d say.”

Aya blinked rapidly, tears brimming in her eyes. “You didn’t mean to hurt anyone, right? You didn’t… want to do that?”

Bram’s expression flickered, his usual composed mask cracking ever so slightly. He tilted his head, considering her words as though they were a particularly challenging riddle.

“Hurt, no. Kill, certainly not. But want…?” He let out a bitter chuckle, something darker toned within. “Aya, I am a vampire. A predator by design. There are… urges I cannot entirely deny, much as I detest them.”

Aya’s lip quivered, but she took a cautious step closer. “But you’re still you, right? You wouldn’t let it take over completely. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Bram’s gaze lingered on her, his crimson eyes searching hers for something; reassurance, perhaps, or forgiveness. He finally bowed his head, his voice dropping to a near whisper:

“I would hope not,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically raw. “But hope is a fragile thing, isn’t it?”

Fukuzawa lowered his sword slightly, though he remained wary. “And what of Fukuchi? What do you call what you just did to him?”

He still feels sick to his stomache watching the scene. He cannot just go unknowing.

Bram’s lips curled into a faint, wry smile, though his eyes betrayed his guilt. “Ah, yes. General Fukuchi. I suppose one could argue he met an end befitting his… ambitions.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the mangled remains of Fukuchi’s body, looking over him as if he were a pile of waste. “Though I confess, I find such an end rather.. deserving.”

Fukuchi's stomach drops at the comment. Perhaps Bram is of darker nature than he realised.

Then again, being forced to take over the world doesn't make you the most loving person. As much as he, dare he say, loved Gen'ichiro; the resentment Bram has towards him isn't too unjust.

Aya’s voice broke through the tension, shaky but firm. “That wasn’t you,” she insisted. “It was that old man. It wasn’t your fault.”

Bram chuckled again, softer this time, and shook his head. “Fault, innocence… such human notions. I’ve lived long enough to know that guilt is rarely so easily assigned. But I appreciate the sentiment, little one.”

Aya stepped closer, her small hands clutching at his torn sleeve. “Bra-chan, you’re not a monster,” she said firmly. “You’re my friend. And I’m not giving up on you.”

Bram blinked at her, his expression briefly unreadable. Then, with a faint sigh, he lifted a trembling hand and rested it lightly on her head. “You are far too kind, Aya,” he murmured. “Far too kind for someone who’s seen what I’ve done.”

Fukuzawa watched the exchange silently, his mind racing. Bram’s guilt was evident, but so was his struggle for control. Whatever it was that plagued him, it was clear they hadn’t seen the last of it.

“We’ll figure this out,” Fukuzawa said, his tone resolute. “But for now, we need to move. There’s no telling what might happen if we stay here.”

Bram straightened, his usual composure returning, though his movements were still cautious. “A wise suggestion, Fukuzawa,” he said, his voice regaining a hint of its usual flair. “I daresay I’ve had quite enough excitement for one evening.”

Aya clung to his arm as they began to walk, her grip tight but reassuring. “You’re not alone, Bra-chan,” she said softly. “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

Bram glanced down at her, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. “You are a most peculiar human, Aya Koda,” he said, his tone light despite the weight of his words. “And I am grateful for it.”

Chapter Text

To say Aya was practically glued to him was an understatement.

The girl seemed to be very excited to have Bram back. She talked about everything there is; about how scared she was, about Fyodors weird treatment of her during his time in Brams body, and even about how she just realised she missed the entire day of school. And while Bram appreciated the sentiment and her including him, he felt like there was something deeper to this other than interaction.

Like she was scared he'd disappear if she looked away.

While this was a touching thing for her to care that much, it just reiterates an easily forgettable fact. That Aya is just 10 years old.

She is but a child, and yet had already experienced the horrors of the battlefield.

Fukuchi would laugh at the irony.

Bram let's out a long sigh, indulging in Aya's wild rambling every now and then. She saved him, so he owes her this at least.

He must protect her from this. He must protect her from himself.

..Or so he says, but as it has been for the last few decades, he's always the one in need of protecting, wether he wants it or not.

Is this really who count Bram Stoker was? The vampire once so worshipped by many, reduced to such a pathetic being?

His train of thought is interrupted by the sudden sound of sobbing, but as he looks beside him in shock, Aya seems okay, if anything, just as confused.

But soon enough he realises the sound is coming from infront of him.

Fukuzawa's entire form seems to be trembling with despair, as he let's out chocked sobs. Yet, despite this, he keeps walking.

Well, that's no surprise. He seemed very attached to the 'hero'.

Despite his intense hatred for that man, Bram feels compelled to atleast acknowledge his grief. Fukuzawa spared him, after all, and offered him a chance at redemption.

"What's the matter? Are thou well?", Bram inquires, out of respect rather than curiosity.

Fukuzawa looks back at Bram, only silently sniffling at first, before bestowing upon him an answer: "The Agency is done. I really just- have nothing left. I've practically sent them all to their deaths..despite their warnings.", he looks away in shame, the guilt seemingly eating him alive.

Fukuzawa should be a leader. Not weak like this.

Not exactly what Bram was expecting, but an.. interesting story nonetheless. Despite their differences, he can sympathise with the man.

They aren't really that different after all.

(His mind wanders back to his subjects, doomed by his own selfishness-)

He closes his eyes in thought, before suddenly a rather risky idea popped into his head. Well, it's worth a shot. "Thy underlings, yes?" He holds eye contact with Fukuzawa, pinning him in his gaze. "Do tell, do their carcases remain recognizable? I may propose a somewhat preposterous idea, if you're up to it, president.", he proposes, really not thinking it through.

Fukuzawa, seemingly confused by this offer, nods his head. "They should be intact enough. They haven't passed that long ago."

He releases a long sigh. Bram can't believe he's doing this, but well, he's too deep in now. Besides, who would vouch for a, technically speaking, war criminal, if not them?

Anything that helps him return to his slumber quicker.

"Do you trust me, president?"

------------------------- 

Before the group lies a pod. It reminds Bram alot of his own coffin.

"..he's the last of them. The rest are supposedly in safe hands." Fukuzawa remarks, eying Bram with suspicion. "Are you sure this is real? This better not be just a ploy for your own gain." He places his hand on his sword hilt. "I have a hard time trusting this procedure"

Bram feigns hurt, if he were capable of feeling such emotions, before rolling his eyes. "Relax, dear. I have no such intentions with any of you. Thou are just the quickest way to regain my eternal slumber. If I wanted to inflict harm upon anybody, I would've done so already, don't you agree?"

Fukuzawa eyes zero in on Bram's indifferent expression, before he sighs and opens the pod.

"Very well, it's not like I have many other options anyway. Just..make it quick." He pleads, before exiting the room.

Aya looks down at the lifeless body, before turning to Bram once again. "Please..just do what you can, Bra-chan. He's part of the reason I'm still here."

She leaves the room as well, not wanting to see what happens next.

Bram's gaze wanders to the body Infront of him.

Lying down in the pod, with a hollowed out face and a seemingly sullen expression is none other than Kunikida Doppo.

He's heard a lot of this man and his ideals, mostly from little Aya. According to her, he'd saved her life on multiple occasions and "Does not deserve to die to that disgusting old man!"
..so she says. Despite his connection to Aya, circumstances hasn't made it possible to meet him yet. He likes to think they would've gotten along pretty well.

Nevertheless, his appearance is quite.. peculiar.
The count tilts his head and narrows his eyes. He's not awful to look at. The man before him has blond hair and fair skin, with quite the long lashes to boot.

One could say his appearance rivals that of the maidens who resided in his castle. Although, he does not know what became of them. It had been centuries since he'd last visited.

He hopes they're fairing much better than he is.

A shame, truly. This man would've made a fine vampire.

Bram brings his frail body up to his lap, and looks at him again, before caressing his neck with his sharp nails. It had been a while, after all, so this should be satisfactory.

His fangs grow in anticipation, right as he circles the perfect spot to feed from. The jugular Vein tends to be the sweetest.

Lowering his head down with a sullen expression, he whispers in the dead man's ear, even if he cannot hear him:

"This is necessary. Forgive me."

He gently bites down at the man's neck as he holds him closer, before sucking his blood and injecting him with his venom.

At first, he takes as little as possible, not wanting to hurt him, but that quickly becomes overshadowed by how good his blood tastes.

"What is this? It's so good." The vampire groans, Inbetween harsh breathes.

The blood tastes sweet, and yet retains it's iron like tinge. It still tastes fresh, and Bram can't help but become intoxicated, despite the fact that it's a corpse he's feeding from.

A pang of guilt suddenly hits him as he looks down at the dead body again. What is he doing? He swore to himself he'd be better, yet here he is. Lowering his standards to a rotting corpse. It's not a first for him, times have called for desperate measures, but it doesn't make it any less disgusting.

Then again, it's not like he deserves much better.

Really, he hasn't tasted such blood in a long time. Not since..his late wife.

He clutches the crucifix of hers unconsciously. Images of her burning come up his mind again, to remind him again of his sins. The pain and suffering he caused simply by existing.

So what's another sin on a mountain of atrocities?

Control starts slipping as his fangs sharpen. Is there really such sources just out in the open? He almost feels gratitude at such an opportunity.

He quickly reminds himself that he must stay focused, and returns to his task.

No longer is he a calamity, after all.

And if he took a little more blood than necessary after Kunikida finished healing, then that's nobody's business but his own.

-------------------

Something is different.

Everything is fuzzy. Kunikida tries to open his eyes, but they seem heavier than an elefant, so he stays put. He lacks too much situational awareness to try and make sense of anything right now.

He hears slight mumbling and the..deep voice of a man?

"What is this? It's so good." He hears, before he senses a tugging at his neck.

But before he can question any further, unconsciousness pulls him down under again.

..Is that blood trickling down his neck?

-----------------

„It's done.", he informs the President, heavy breathing accompanying his words.

Fukuzawa eyes him up and down, before bowling. "Stoker, I really don't know how I could ever thank you. You're always welcome at our office. I'll..make sure you get a lighter sentence"

He pretends not to notice the blood trickling down the vampire's lip, or his pupils, formed into sharp slits.

--------

The agency building is just as buzzing as it used to be.

In the aftermath of the battlefield, Bram found himself in unfamiliar territory—not just physically, but emotionally.

For centuries, he had been many things: a ruler, a warrior, a weapon, and finally, a prisoner. Such a life is all he'd known.

But what he had never been was… included.

Yet here he was, living among the Armed Detective Agency, a group of chaotic, self-righteous humans who claimed to fight for justice.

The couch in the farthest, darkest corner of the office had become his domain. His ancient sword leaned against the wall beside him, its blade rusted with blood, dull and lifeless—much like how he felt in this strange, new environment. The Agency buzzed around him with their missions, their paperwork, and their incessant conversations. He pretended to sleep most of the time, his crimson eyes narrowed to slits as he observed them.

Yet slumber never came to claim him.

It was noisy, too noisy. Have humans forgotten manners in the workplace as time went on?

It's been quite a while since he's interacted with mortals, after all.

Well, at least ones that didn't want to kill him or use him.

Yet, in a way he couldn’t quite articulate, the noise filled a void he hadn’t even realized was there.

---

The day after Fukuzawa announced Bram’s indefinite stay, the Agency gathered in the conference room for what could only be described as a heated debate.

“This is a mistake,” Kunikida declared, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “He’s a liability. We don’t know where his loyalties lie—or if he even has any. Haven't you seen the way vampires ravished the world?”

Bram continues to pretend to sleep, like always, avoiding any responsibility. Although, he can't help but turn away slightly at such a comment.

“Come on, Kunikida,” Dazai said, reclining lazily in his chair. “Don’t be so dramatic. Bram’s harmless now. Aya’s practically tamed him.”

Fukuzawa’s sharp gaze silenced Dazai’s grin, but the mood remained uneasy.

Really, he didn't think his mere presence would be for such a concern. He barely even existed outside of dozing off lazily.

Regardless, it's good to be careful, he supposes.

“Harmless?” Kunikida repeated. “He’s a centuries-old vampire who once ruled over an empire of blood and terror. Forgive me if I’m not convinced by his current lethargy.”, Kunikida argues.

“He saved Aya,” Yosano said pointedly, her voice calm but firm. “And he did it of his own free will. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Bram makes a mental note to gift her a sheep later.

“He saved her because she freed him,” Kunikida argued. “That’s not the same as loyalty.”

He gazes at Kunikida with contempt. Was he really just there for Aya because she saved him?

No, that cannot be true.

Ranpo, who had been munching on a bag of chips in the corner, chose this moment to chime in. “He’s fine. If he wanted to kill us, he’d have done it by now. Besides, I think he’s kind of funny.”

Kunikida turned to glare at him. “Funny?”

“Yeah,” Ranpo said with a grin. “Like a grumpy old cat.”

“I am not a cat, I will bite you.” Bram’s voice drifted from the corner of the room, cold and biting.

The sudden interjection startled the group into silence. Dazai’s grin widened. “See? He’s even participating in conversations now. Progress!”

“Enough,” Fukuzawa said, his tone brooking no argument. “Bram is here because of Aya’s trust and because I believe he deserves a chance to prove himself. He will follow our rules. If he steps out of line, I will deal with him personally.”

The room fell silent, though the tension remained palpable.

Bram is just glad this exhausting mess is over.

---

The Agency adjusted to Bram’s presence slowly, though not without bumps along the way. Most members avoided his corner, thinking he was too broody and dangerous, considering his hand in the recent situation, though there were exceptions.
Aya, of course, was his most frequent visitor, her chatter a constant background noise that he pretended to ignore.

Though he can't help but find her efforts endearing.

“I’m telling you, Bram,” she said one afternoon, sitting cross legged on the floor beside his couch, “if you just tried to talk to people, they’d see you’re not so bad.”

The count rolls his eyes. This isn't the first time that Aya has tried to get him to get along with others, but really, he thinks it's too much of a hassle.

“Humans are insufferable,” Bram muttered, turning his head away.

“You’re insufferable,” Aya shot back, grinning.

"Thou cannot even think of a creative way to insult me. Humans truly are pathetic."

Aya repeatedly hits his chest in protest.

Tanizaki was the first to approach him with a peace offering. He held out a book one day, his expression hesitant. “I heard you like to read,” he said.

The vampire looks up to the boy, eyes widening slightly at the gesture.

Bram took the book without a word, flipping through its pages with a faint sneer. It seems to be a vampire book. Dracula, it's called. “This is trash.”

Tanizaki flushed. “Oh, um, I—”

“I’ll read it,” Bram interrupted, settling back against the couch with the book.

It might be helpful to find out what humans think of his kind, after all.

Tanizaki leaves and gives Naomi a high five in victory.

------ 

Even Atsushi made an effort, inviting him to join them on missions. Bram is hesitant, not fully trusting himself to be around so many people yet.
“You don’t have to fight or anything,” Atsushi said awkwardly. “Just… you know, come along. See what we do. The name doesn't really reveal much, after all.”

Bram stared at him for a long moment before responding, “I’d rather die.”

Yet, when Atsushi returned from the mission injured, Bram lingered nearby, watching Yosano patch him up with an unreadable expression.

---

For all his grumbling and aloofness, Bram couldn’t entirely suppress the instincts honed over centuries of leadership and survival. He really isn't used to such a..domestic and peaceful life.

He's a ruthless leader and weapon at heart.

Though he's been making an effort. Slowly but surely he tried to adjust to human society, doing things that he deemed "humanesque", like exercising or going out during the day.

Some things though, they never change.

During a walk, he found himself lingering over an injured civilian, the scent of blood sharp in the air. His claws grow longer in response.

He holds back the saliva threatening to escape his mouth.

Atsushi, noticing his hesitation, approached cautiously. “Bram? Are you okay?”

Bram’s crimson eyes snapped to him, a flicker of something primal in their depths. “Humans are so fragile,” he muttered, more to himself than to Atsushi.

The poor Weretiger wasn't sure what to respond. He feels like this is an important statement.

“Do you… want to help them?” Atsushi asked hesitantly.

Bram scoffed, turning away. “They’ll survive. Or they won’t. It’s of no consequence to me.”

Yet he lingered a moment longer before walking away, his expression unreadable.

---

In the rare moments of quiet, Bram often found himself reflecting on the strange twists of fate that had led him here.

He gazed at the bustling office from his corner, his crimson eyes half-lidded as memories swirled in his mind. He had once ruled an empire, commanding legions of vampires who would have died for him without question. And now? He was little more than a shadow of his former self, reduced to lurking in a corner while humans debated his worth.

He wasn’t sure what was more humiliating: the pity he saw in their eyes or the faint flicker of hope Aya’s trust ignited in him.

Such a life is not made for him. He feels guilty, having been given the opportunity to be free again.

He is a feared creature, and yet.. he leans into this humanity they have offered him.

“Kindness,” he murmured one evening, when Aya had fallen asleep on the floor beside his couch. “What a fragile thing. And yet… it endures.”

He feels silly to realise that human emotions continue to plague him.

For centuries, he had been a symbol of fear and destruction, his very existence a testament to humanity’s darker impulses. But now, among these peculiar humans, he wondered if there was still a fragment of his old self buried beneath the centuries of blood and regret.

Was it possible to reclaim it? Or was it already too late?
--
Despite his resistance, Bram found himself drawn into the Agency’s chaotic rhythm. Yosano became an unlikely ally, her sharp wit and dark humor a match for his own.

He knew she was a good person when he first saw her.

“You know,” she said one day while tending to a wounded Kyoka, “you could be useful if you stopped sulking.”

“I’m not sulking,” Bram replied.

“Sure you’re not,” she said, smirking.

Kyoka looks at him in admiration, zeroing in on his hair, before quickly turning away.

Even Kunikida began to thaw, though it was a slow and reluctant process. During a mission briefing, Bram corrected one of his calculations—a minor error, but enough to catch Kunikida’s attention. He must admit, correcting people sparks a glimmer of pride in him again.

“Maybe you’re not entirely useless,” Kunikida admitted begrudgingly.

“High praise from you,” Bram said dryly.

And yet, he feels a slither of excitement at this development.

---

Though the road was long and uncertain, Bram found moments of solace among the Agency. Aya’s unwavering faith, Fukuzawa’s cautious trust, and the occasional banter with his reluctant comrades reminded him that perhaps, after centuries of darkness, there was still a sliver of light.

And for now, that was enough.

But would such peace last?

Thinking of this, Bram falls back into a deep, deep slumber.

Chapter Text

The dungeon air was cold, as it always was. But tonight it carried an uncomfortable weight, as if the walls themselves were pressing in on Bram. He stood in front of his newest prisoner, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, he now knows, whose chains rattled as he shifted against the cold stone of his cell. The prisoner’s eyes burned with something Bram could not quite place; defiance, perhaps, or maybe understanding. Whatever it was, it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain.

"You know, you really do have a fascinating way with words," Bram remarked, his voice low, almost amused. "Captured on your own volition? I don't understand such actions, quite frankly. You dare take my time for such an odd reason?"

Fyodor smirked, his bloodstained lips curling upwards in an unsettling grin. "I was always drawn to dangerous things," he said, his voice raspy but filled with conviction. "But you, my Lord , you are something else entirely. The devil himself, one could say."

Bram felt a familiar stirring at those words. Something that resided deep in his chest, dark and old. But he kept his expression neutral, cold even, as he leaned in slightly.

"You referred to me as the devil," Bram replied, his tone soft and smooth, as if he were simply recounting an idle observation. "Oh, how right you were. But tell me, peasant, was it a fear you spoke of? Or something else?" His gaze darkened, and his lips twitched into a thin smile, barely a trace of something unholy behind his words.

Fyodor’s grin didn’t fade. He looked almost... content, in a way. "It doesn’t matter, does it? You’ve captured me. You’ve won. Now, what will you do with me?"

There was a pause. The silence hung in the air like a heavy fog. Bram watched Fyodor, studying his every move. The prisoner seemed so serene in his own imprisonment, so utterly unbothered. A part of him was perplexed by this: why was Fyodor so calm? What was it about this man that made him so difficult to read? Why is he almost shaking in anticipation?

"Do you wish to die?" Bram asked, breaking the silence. It was an idle question, but there was a sharp edge to it, one that only Fyodor seemed to notice.

Fyodor tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at him. "I don’t fear death, Count," he said. "I welcomed it the moment I met you. You... You have something about you, don’t you? Something that makes people like me want to see it firsthand."

The vampire's gaze narrowed in suspicion. "And what would that be?"

"That... tempting smile of yours," Fyodor whispered, almost wistfully. "That cruelty, that elegance. It’s why I wanted to meet you. I knew, deep down, that you were the one I’d never escape. Not in this life, nor the next. You truly are the devil's incarnate."

Bram took a slow step back, his mind turning. He almost found it absurd how calm Fyodor was in this situation, considering his imminent fate. And yet, there was something unsettlingly... captivating about his words.

"You speak as though you know me well," Bram finally said, his tone dropping into something more contemplative. "But you don’t, human. You only think you do."

Fyodor’s eyes flickered with a strange gleam. "Perhaps," he mused, "but I know what I saw when I first laid eyes on you. You may think you’re in control here, but you’re just like me, My Lord. We’re both trapped. You more than me, in fact."

Bram felt a shiver run down his spine at those words, but he quickly suppressed it. The momentary flicker of unease disappeared beneath the weight of his usual detachment.

"You truly are an odd one," Bram remarked, his voice almost too calm. "I could crush you here and now, for you have run your mouth for far too long."

The words hung in the air for a long, heavy moment. Finally, Bram turned away, as if dismissing him entirely.

"When the rooster announces the call at noon, you shall impale him with your holy spears," he ordered to the guards, his voice indifferent. His gaze flicked briefly back to Fyodor. "You’re not worth my time anymore."

Sure enough, as the clock strikes 12, and Bram soon arrives to keep watch, the guards impale him as promised.

The count lets out a long sigh, contemplating that strange interaction. Something about that man was.. captivating, in a horrid sense. "Carry him away", he orders, really not wanting to think of it anymore.

As the guards moved to lift Fyodor’s body, a strange sound filled the room. It was soft at first, a subtle movement, almost imperceptible. But Bram's senses, always honed, caught it immediately. He turned his head just in time to see Fyodor’s eyes snap open, yet with no life behind them, and his lips curling into that unsettling grin once more.

The air in the room seemed to shift, charged with something Bram couldn't quite place. Fyodor’s smile deepened, though it was no longer directed at him.

The guard closest to Fyodor froze, his face contorting into a look of horror. The man’s body trembled as if under an invisible force, his movements becoming stiff, as if someone else were pulling his strings. Suddenly, he started screaming in agony, before only a second later, he stops.

And then, as if on cue, Fyodor’s voice rang out, low, but with a weight that sent a chill through Bram’s veins. "Of course, my dear Devil," Fyodor whispered, as the guard’s voice now echoed his words, hollow and eerie.

Bram didn’t flinch. His expression remained cold, but something in the back of his mind stirred. He turned his gaze back to the Fyodor's empty eyes, locked onto that impossible, satisfied expression, as if he had somehow known all along how this would unfold.

For a moment, everything seemed still, suspended in time. The moment stretched, and Bram couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He quickly dismissed the thought and turned, leaving the dungeon. But as he walked away, his mind replayed those words over and over: "Of course, my dear Devil."

---

That night, Bram awoke with a sharp, unexpected jolt. His breath hitched as he realized something was wrong. His teeth—his fangs—were pressed deeply into the flesh of his own wrist. Blood trickled down his skin, and his mind was still tangled in the remnants of the dream.

His body jerked away from the bite instinctively, as though it were a part of him he couldn’t control. He stared at his wrist, the blood now staining his skin, and for a long moment, all he could do was breathe in shallow, ragged gasps.

It wasn’t the hunger that had caused it. It was something else. Something deep within him had stirred.

Bram slowly wiped his wrist, his mind still fixated on Fyodor. That smile. Those last words.

The devil, he thought, his voice a whisper in the empty room. I have become just what he wanted me to be.

His sleep was just as restless as he feared.

--

The Agency office was alive with its usual commotion, but Bram felt no part of it. He lay on the corner couch, his pale hand draped over his eyes as if the motion alone could block out the world. The humans around him buzzed like flies, too loud, too persistent, too close. Well, that's what comes with the newly acquired freedom.

Freedom.

The word still tasted foreign to him, like an unfamiliar fruit. Bitter and sweet all at once. He was no longer chained to Fukuchi, no longer a weapon forced to enact another’s will. And yet, what was he now?

Under Fukuchi's control was, to his disdain, easier. All he had to do was follow orders.

Now he has to wrestle with himself.

He hadn’t fed in weeks.

This usually wouldn't be a problem, if these were normal circumstances. He'd survived this long after all.

But these aren't normal circumstances.

His energy would normally be replenished by long sleep, which, to his dismay, hasn't been possible for him. He's been far too occupied with other things to realise that he's in need again.

Other matters have also compromised his ability to sleep peacefully.

The hunger gnawed at him, a dull ache in the pit of his stomach that sharpened every time someone passed too close. The scent of blood clung to these humans like perfume, a constant, maddening reminder of what he denied himself.

He could ask, he supposed. The Agency was annoyingly accommodating, and they would likely concoct some blood-donation schedule with their usual infuriating nonchalance. But the thought of asking—of admitting that he needed their help—made his stomach turn.

And asking for blood would just make him seem like a bigger threat; he really didn't need that right now, especially since they're still so suspicious of him.

So he suffered in silence.

The door rung open, with most of the members clocking in for the day. He really couldn't understand how they had so much motivation this early in the morning. (It was 4pm.)

Bram shifted slightly, the couch creaking under his weight. He should probably get up and do something with himself.

Fukuzawa has decided for him that he shall remain in the agency building, so they can watch over him better, until a more permanent arrangement is made. According to him, despite the threat of the decay being over, he still needs to lay low to avoid drawing the attention of people with malicious intent.

Really, he should be flattered, he's being treated like a prized possession.

He chuckles at his bad attempt at humor.

Aya’s voice rang out from the other side of the room, cheerful and persistent as she pestered Atsushi about some trivial matter. She's been over at the Agency almost daily, almost becoming part of it herself. Bram felt a pang of irritation, followed almost immediately by guilt.

Aya.

She was always there, hovering at the edges of his solitude like an insistent shadow. She asked too many questions, ignored his warnings to leave him alone, and treated him with a casual familiarity that made his skin crawl.

And yet...

Bram’s gaze flicked toward her, unbidden.

She was a child, and yet she had faced horrors most adults would balk at. She had seen him at his lowest, his most monstrous, and hadn’t flinched.

He hated to admit it, but she reminded him of someone.

Someone he had long since forgotten.

Bram closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his chest as if to suppress the ache building there.

Perhaps the Agency was right. Perhaps he didn’t deserve to push her away.

Perhaps he didn't deserve her mercy.

As everyone started fussing over their work, he just became more and more irritated.

The ache in his chest was joined by a sharper, more immediate pain—a hunger that clawed at him with increasing ferocity.

He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay still. To stay composed.

But the scent of blood was everywhere.

It was in the faint metallic tang that lingered in Yosano’s wake. In the warmth radiating from Atsushi as he passed by. And most maddeningly, in the steady, rhythmic pulse of Kunikida’s presence.

Bram’s gaze drifted toward the man despite himself.

Kunikida was seated at his desk, his posture impossibly straight as he scribbled furiously in his notebook. His ribbon was slightly askew, his hair mussed from, somehow, a long day’s work. He ran a hand through it absently, exposing the faint scar on his neck.

Bram’s throat tightened.

The memory of that night came back in a rush, the press of fangs against flesh, the surge of warmth as Kunikida’s blood filled his senses. Rich and potent, it had been unlike anything he had tasted in centuries.

Even when he'd been disgusted with himself.

Before he realized it, he was staring, his body taut as his senses locked onto the faint pulse beneath Kunikida’s skin. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the phantom taste making his stomach churn with both hunger and guilt.

---

Kunikida adjusted his ribbon absently, his fingers brushing against the scar on his neck.

He froze.

The memory of that night was hazy at best, a tangle of exhaustion and pain. He had dismissed most of it as hallucinations, but certain fragments refused to fade.

The voice.

Gentle, deep, and laced with regret.

“This is necessary. Forgive me.”

He shook his head, trying to focus on the task at hand. But the pieces kept aligning, no matter how much he tried to deny them.

His gaze flickered toward Bram.

The vampire was slouched on the couch, his expression unreadable. But there was something in the way he held himself, something tense and coiled, like a predator on the verge of pouncing.

Kunikida’s fingers brushed the scar again, his stomach twisting. He can't help but feel a little afraid.

Could it have been him?

---

Bram shifted uncomfortably, his hand gripping the hilt of the holy sword as if the familiar weight could anchor him. He doesn't know why he still keeps the thing around, but it serves as comfort for him, in a strange way.

This wasn’t sustainable.

Every day, the hunger grew stronger, more insistent. And every day, he fought to suppress it, to maintain the illusion that he could coexist with these humans without succumbing to his needs.

But how long could he keep lying to himself?

He has been trying his hardest to keep everyone away, yet their efforts never waivered. It made him curious, how much would they take before inevitably deciding he did more harm than good?

Fukuzawa's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Bram! Are you even listening?”

He scowled at him. “No.”

He rolled his eyes. “We’ve got a mission briefing. You’re coming, right?”

I would rather kill myself three times.

“Do I have a choice?”

He wishes they would all just pretend he didn't exist. It would be much easier for everyone involved. 

---

The Agency gathered around the central table, the air buzzing with anticipation. Dazai lounged in his chair, Ranpo munched on snacks, and Kunikida stood at the head of the table, his expression stern as always.

“We’ve received reports of strange activity near the docks,” Kunikida began, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Disappearances, rumors of attacks. Witnesses claim to have seen a figure moving unnaturally fast in the shadows.”

Bram’s attention drifted as Kunikida outlined the mission parameters. The man’s voice was steady and authoritative, each word laced with precision.

It reminded him of that night.

“This is necessary. Forgive me.”

Bram shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to his hands.

“Bram.”

He looked up, startled to find Kunikida addressing him directly.

“You’ll be accompanying Atsushi and me,” Kunikida said, his tone firm.

Bram raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“Because we need your… expertise,” Kunikida replied, though the hesitation in his voice was almost imperceptible.

Did they really think he went around at night biting unawaiting people?

Bram smirked faintly, though the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “Fine. But don’t expect me to play hero.”

He couldn't help but notice the concerned look Atsushi shot him from the side.

---

As the meeting adjourned, Bram lingered by the couch, his thoughts tangled.

Kunikida brushed past him on his way out, his movements brisk and efficient. But for a split second, Bram caught the faintest flicker of hesitation in his expression, the slightest pause in his step.

Bram’s gaze followed him, a mixture of guilt and something unnameable twisting in his chest.

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. How much longer he could go seeing that man without completely losing his sanity.

He knows what he has to do. He doesn't know if he has the dignity to do it.

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

He chuckles to himself at his reasoning again.

--

It was nightfall. The perfect time for him to be in action. The perfect time to reclaim his title again.

The dim glow of the hallway lights cast long shadows across the floor as Bram crept down the corridor, his movements fluid and deliberate. The hunger that had been gnawing at him for weeks now threatened to consume him entirely. He could feel it—sharp and insistent, always present in the back of his mind. It was a constant hum, a distant, yearning echo that urged him to feed.

He hadn’t been able to control it much longer. Each day felt like another step toward losing the fragile grip he had on his own willpower. He had managed to hide it so far, but the familiar scent of blood in the Agency's medical room made it impossible to resist any longer.

The door creaked open quietly as Bram slipped inside, letting it click shut behind him with a soft thud. The room was cool, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. He could smell it immediately; the faint, metallic scent of blood, preserved and waiting. He had been here before, watching over Atsushi and Yosano, and had noted the strong feeling of blood, but tonight the temptation was too strong.

His fingers brushed against the cold surface of the fridge, the plastic bags inside so innocently stored, waiting. As if made for him. His mouth watered, his senses heightened as he stood there for a long moment, trying to force himself to think rationally. But the hunger in him wouldn’t be silenced. It clawed at him, demanding to be sated.

With a quick motion, his hand wrapped around a bag, fingers tight around the cool plastic as his body tensed with anticipation. He could already feel the pulse in his throat, the need overwhelming him. He was just about to turn and make his escape when the door opened.

Bram froze.

“Bram?”

It was Yosano’s voice, casual but sharp, cutting through the room with an unsettling clarity. His heart skipped in his chest, and he immediately froze in place, the blood bag still clenched in his fingers. He didn’t dare turn around, not yet, not while the weight of his guilt pressed down on him. He had been caught. Of course, he had. It was inevitable. Who did he think he was, really.

He shifted uncomfortably, his back still turned. “Didn’t see you there, woman” he muttered, trying to sound indifferent. His grip tightened around the blood bag, but he didn’t move to hide it. Not yet. Not until he absolutely had to.

The footsteps that followed were soft, measured. Yosano didn’t rush, didn’t make a sound to indicate any surprise or accusation. Instead, there was just her quiet presence, unbothered, as though she was waiting for him to do... something.

She stopped behind him. He could feel her there, her gaze sharp and steady even without seeing it. Her silence stretched between them like a thick cord, taut and yet somehow soothing. Bram remained still, trying to steady his breathing, but the hunger, the raw need inside of him, made it hard to focus.

Yosano didn’t immediately speak, but Bram could feel her studying him, perhaps sensing the tension that hung in the air. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was happening. She had been around long enough to know the signs. But instead of calling him out, she simply spoke, her tone almost conversational.

“So... you were looking for something, huh?”

Bram’s chest tightened at her words. He wasn’t sure if she was pretending not to notice or if she genuinely wasn’t going to acknowledge what was happening. Either way, it felt like a strange kind of mercy.

He hesitated for a long moment before responding, the blood bag still clutched in his hand. “I’m just... checking something,” he said with a forced nonchalance. “Thought I’d see if I'd find it here.”

Yosano hummed quietly, a soft sound that could have been anything. She didn’t sound surprised. She didn’t sound concerned. Just... observant. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, then moved to the refrigerator without remark. There was no judgment in her voice, no accusation. She simply gave him space, as if it was a normal thing to find him here in the first place.

For a few moments, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of their breathing and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. Bram could feel his pulse quickening, the urge to feed still present, clawing at his chest. He had been so close- just a few more steps and he would have been out of here. But now, with Yosano’s quiet presence, he wasn’t sure what to do.

He could feel her gaze on him, even if she wasn’t directly looking. It was the kind of thing Yosano was good at; sensing without pushing, making people feel understood without having to speak it out loud. She knew something was wrong, but she didn’t make a move to force him to confront it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke again, her tone easy and unaffected. “You know, you really should get more sleep,” she said lightly. “You’re starting to look like you’re running on empty.”

Bram let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “I’m fine,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “Just... not tired.”

Yosano didn’t press the issue. She didn’t ask if he was okay, or if he had eaten recently. She didn’t even question his intentions, though he knew she had to have figured it out by now. Instead, she simply walked to the far side of the room, rummaging through a drawer as though she hadn’t noticed the blood bag in his hand.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice light. “You’re awfully quiet lately. And you’ve been keeping your distance. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

Bram’s stomach churned at the words, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him. She was worried, but not in the way she probably thought. He wasn’t just tired, wasn’t just distant. He was starving, and yet, here he was, too ashamed to ask for what he needed.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice low, more out of habit than actual belief. “Really. You musn't concern yourself with the matters of otherworldly creatures.”

Yosano didn’t look up as she spoke again, as if she was just humoring him. “Well, if you’re sure...”

She let the silence hang for a moment before continuing. “But if you ever need anything, Bram, you know where to find me.” The words were spoken lightly, with no hint of pressure, just a quiet understanding that said everything without needing to be said aloud.

Bram’s throat tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he slowly put the blood bag back where he had found it, his hands trembling slightly. He couldn’t do it. Not like this. Not when someone might see. He didn’t know what it was, pride, guilt, shame, but something kept him from taking that final step.

He stood there, his back still turned, but Yosano didn’t press him. She simply turned and walked toward the door, her footsteps light and unhurried.

“You’ll be fine,” she said over her shoulder, her voice gentle but knowing. “Just don’t make a habit of sneaking around, alright?”

With that, she left the room, leaving Bram alone with his thoughts, and with the hunger still clawing at his insides.

Now he's back to square one.

Chapter Text

Mornings were the worst.

Bram opened his eyes to the muted gray of dawn creeping through the thin curtains of his room. It was an unwelcome intrusion, a pale, lifeless light that lacked the warmth of the sunrises he remembered. He didn’t know why he even bothered to sleep anymore; rest brought no reprieve, and waking only reminded him of the prison he called life.

The room around him was quiet, save for the faint creak of old wood as the wind pressed against the building. It was a sparse space, functional to the point of sterility. A narrow bed with stiff sheets, a wooden chair tucked into a small desk, and a mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. He loathed it.

He was given this room as a temporary accomodation for his time at the agency. Although he is grateful for their hospitality, even if he would never admit it, something about this room just rubs him the wrong way.

It wasn’t the lack of luxury that bothered him, he’d long since abandoned such indulgences, but the absence of life. Everything here felt hollow, like a stage set waiting for actors who would never come.

Bram sat up, the motion slow and deliberate. His long white hair cascaded around him, catching the dim light and giving him an ethereal glow. His fingers brushed through the strands absentmindedly as his crimson eyes fixed on the mirror across the room.

Oh who is he kidding, he won't ever be human again.

The reflection that stared back at him was the familiar emptiness of his room, yet foreign. It's been millennia since he's last seen his own reflection, but he likes to imagine how it would've changed over time. He saw the same face he had worn for centuries, but it was thinner now, gaunter. His sharp cheekbones and pale skin gave him an almost skeletal appearance, like a ghost of the man he once was.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips. Still haunting the living, aren’t you, Devil?

He pushed himself to his feet, his movements fluid despite the stiffness that came with centuries of existence. His bare feet touched the cold floor, and he paused for a moment, letting the chill seep into him. It grounded him, reminded him that he was still here, still tethered to a world that seemed to have forgotten him.

His gaze drifted back to the mirror. He studied it, tilting his head slightly as if searching for something, anything, that might explain why he continued to endure this existence. But all he saw was a warrior who had outlived his purpose, a relic kept alive by some cruel twist of fate.

Bram sighed, the sound soft but heavy with the weight of years. He turned away from the mirror and crossed the room to the small desk. His movements were unhurried, almost lazy, as if he had all the time in the world, which, in a sense, he did.

The desk held little of interest: a pen, a blank notebook, and a stack of papers Kunikida had given him weeks ago. He hadn’t bothered to read them. Instructions, rules, expectations; they all blurred together in his mind, a monstrosity of human trivialities he had no patience for.

Today, however, was different. Today, he had a mission.

The thought made him pause, his fingers brushing against the edge of the desk. A mission. The very word felt foreign on his tongue, like a relic from a time long past. Missions were something he once thrived on, back when he had a cause, a purpose.

And what purpose do I serve now? He wondered.

The Agency called it “helping,” but Bram knew better. He was a tool to them, a weapon they didn’t fully trust but couldn’t afford to discard. It was almost amusing, in a grim sort of way. The great Bram Stoker, reduced to an errand boy for a band of misfits and idealists.

He reached for the notebook and flipped it open, skimming the blank pages. The pristine white mocked him, a canvas he had no desire to fill. Once, his life had been a tapestry of battles and victories, each thread woven with purpose. Now, it was an empty notebook, waiting for a story he didn’t care to write.

He really ought to be less sentimental. He starts sounding like his age, he shudders.

Bram closed the notebook with a snap and set it back on the desk. He straightened, his posture regal despite the weight on his shoulders. If nothing else, he still carried himself with the grace of a warrior.

Crossing the room again, he stopped by the window and pulled the curtains aside. The view was uninspiring; gray buildings stacked against a gray sky. The streets below were still quiet, the city not yet fully awake.

He rested a hand on the windowsill, his fingers curling against the cold wood. The wind outside howled softly, a mournful sound that echoed the emptiness inside him.

For a moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to step outside, to feel the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. But the thought passed quickly, replaced by the dull ache of reality.

Bram turned away from the window, his expression unreadable. He moved to the corner of the room where his wretched sword rested against the wall. The holy blade gleamed faintly, even in the dim light, its presence a constant reminder of what he had been and what he could never be again.

He reached for the sword, his fingers grazing the hilt. It felt heavier than he remembered, as if the weight of his past had somehow seeped into the steel.

With the sword in hand, Bram straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. He didn’t know what this mission would bring, but he would face it with the same quiet resolve that had carried him through centuries of blood and loss.

Because that was who he was. A warrior. A survivor.

And for better or worse, he was still here.

The soft echo of approaching footsteps disrupted Bram's solitude. His gaze shifted from the drifting clouds to the doorframe where Kunikida now stood, ever the epitome of stern precision. Arms crossed and expression unwavering, Kunikida’s presence carried the same weight as his voice, steady and deliberate.

“Bram,” he began, his tone clipped but polite, “we need you at the mission briefing. Now.”

There was no room for negotiation in his words, but Bram wasn’t the type to feel particularly compelled by authority, let alone by the structured routine Kunikida seemed to thrive on. Still, he unfolded himself from his lounging position with an elegance that felt more like defiance than compliance.

“Am I to be briefed on another mundane errand, or does this one promise actual intrigue?” Bram questioned lightly, the faintest hint of mockery curling at the edge of his tone.

Kunikida’s brows knitted together, though whether in annoyance or an attempt to temper his reaction, Bram couldn’t quite tell. The man was so frustratingly earnest, his every word and movement dictated by some unspoken creed. At times, Bram envied that clarity of purpose, but more often than not, he found it suffocating to witness.

“This is important,” Kunikida replied, ignoring the bait. “Lives are at stake. I’d expect even you to take that seriously.”

Bram smirked faintly. “You assume I don’t. Perhaps you misunderstand my nature, human.”

The way Kunikida’s eyes lingered on him then, not with hostility, but with a quiet scrutiny, gave Bram pause. There was something about the intensity of Kunikida's gaze, the way it always seemed to weigh the worth of the world in its reflection, that unsettled Bram. He was used to being dismissed or feared, not studied.

They walked in silence for a while, but Bram’s senses were attuned, as always, to the subtle rhythms of life. The faint pulse of Kunikida’s heartbeat reached his ears; a steady, determined thrum that spoke volumes about the man. His blood would taste like conviction now, Bram thought idly, with an undertone of exhaustion that no amount of resolve could mask.

Bram swallowed hard, the thought stirring a faint pang of hunger that he quickly suppressed. It was a dangerous thing to let his mind linger on such details, but Kunikida made it difficult. There was something about his unyielding nature, the way he refused to bend even under the weight of the world, that Bram found... captivating.

“Do you ever tire of it?” Bram asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence between them.

Kunikida glanced at him, puzzled. “Tire of what?”

“Carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Kunikida’s expression softened for a fraction of a second before it hardened again. “Someone has to.”

Bram hummed thoughtfully, his amusement laced with something almost wistful. “Noble. Though I wonder, who carries you when the weight becomes too much?”

Kunikida didn’t answer, and for once, Bram didn’t press further. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it hung between them like a bridge neither had fully decided to cross.

When they reached the briefing room, Kunikida held the door open for him; a small, courteous gesture that felt oddly significant. Bram inclined his head, stepping inside without a word.

As the others filed in and the meeting began, Bram found his thoughts drifting once more to Kunikida. Perhaps there was more to the man than rigid ideals and an ironclad sense of duty. Perhaps there was a softness there, hidden beneath the weight of expectations he carried so diligently. Although, he had been seeming far more scared of Bram than he usually was. He ought to find out the reason for this strange behaviour.

For the first time in a long while, Bram felt a flicker of curiosity; about Kunikida, about the mission, and perhaps even about himself.

The air in the conference room was charged with the usual blend of urgency and focus that accompanied any Armed Detective Agency meeting. Bram settled into a chair near the corner, his posture languid but his crimson eyes alert, scanning the faces around him with mild interest. Atsushi sat across from him, attentive as ever, while Dazai leaned back with his trademark irreverence. Kunikida stood at the head of the room, a clipboard in hand and a stern expression etched across his face.

“As we’ve discussed, disappearances have been reported in the dockyards,” Kunikida began, his voice slicing through the ambient murmurs. “Five people have gone missing over the past week. Witnesses describe strange occurrences, shadows moving unnaturally fast, sounds of claws scraping against steel, and an overwhelming feeling of dread.”

“Sounds like your typical Friday night,” Dazai quipped, earning a glare from Kunikida.

Bram smirked faintly at the exchange but kept his thoughts to himself. His mind was already wandering to the docks, imagining the dark, labyrinthine alleyways and the creatures that might lurk there.

Kunikida ignored Dazai’s interruption and continued. “The Yokohama Police have requested our assistance. They believe these incidents are connected to the arrival of a new ability user; one who preys on their victims under the cover of darkness.”

“Lovely,” Bram drawled, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “A creature of the night. I’m sure we’ll have so much in common.”

Kunikida shot him a brief look, but it wasn’t quite irritation. If anything, it seemed contemplative, as though he were still puzzling over how to make sense of Bram’s presence among them.

“As amusing as your commentary is,” Kunikida said, his tone clipped, “this mission will require focus. Bram, given your... unique abilities and experience, your role will be pivotal in this operation.”

Bram raised a brow, his interest piqued despite himself. “Pivotal, you say? What an honor.”

“You’ll act as bait,” Kunikida replied without missing a beat.

The room fell silent for a moment, save for Dazai’s poorly suppressed chuckle. Atsushi looked up from the notes he was scribbling, concern flashing in his golden eyes.

“Isn’t that a bit risky?” Atsushi asked hesitantly. “I mean, Bram doesn’t exactly-”

“Bram can handle himself,” Kunikida interrupted firmly. “His presence will draw the creature out, and we’ll be there to apprehend it.”

Bram leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with a fluid grace. “Ah, so I’m the sacrificial lamb. How charming.”

“It’s not like that,” Kunikida said, his voice softening just enough to surprise Bram. “We wouldn’t send you in alone. The team will be there to ensure your safety.”

Bram’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. The idea of being protected by the Agency was laughable, but he couldn’t deny the faint warmth that crept into his chest at Kunikida’s choice of words.

“Fine,” Bram said at last, his tone nonchalant. “But if this creature tries to make a meal of me, I’ll handle it my way.”

“Within reason,” Kunikida replied, his gaze sharp.

Bram offered a small, elegant shrug, as if to say, we’ll see.

---

The briefing concluded with Kunikida assigning roles to each member of the team. Bram’s task was simple: lure the creature into the open while the others lay in wait to subdue it. The plan was meticulous, down to the smallest detail, as all of Kunikida’s plans were. Bram admired the precision, though he’d never admit it aloud.

As the meeting dispersed, Kunikida approached Bram, clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Do you understand your role in this mission?” he asked, his voice low enough to avoid drawing attention.

Bram regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I understand perfectly. But tell me, Kunikida- what happens if this creature isn’t interested in the bait?”

Kunikida hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, contemplating this strange articulation. “Then we adapt.”

“Adaptation isn’t your strong suit, is it?” Bram said, his tone almost playful, while he recalls how Kunikida’s corpse lay on that fateful night.

Kunikida didn’t rise to the provocation. Instead, he straightened his glasses and replied, “I don’t need to adapt when the plan works.”

Bram chuckled softly, the sound low and rich. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

---

Later, in the Agency’s armory, Bram retrieved the holy sword he had dropped off here earlier. It rested on a pedestal, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. He ran his fingers along the hilt, the cold metal sending a familiar shiver up his spine.

“You’re bringing that?” Atsushi’s voice startled him. Bram turned to see the tiger-boy standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of awe and apprehension.

“Why not?” Bram replied smoothly. “It’s better than going unarmed, and it makes quite the statement.”

“Right,” Atsushi said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just... thought you didn’t like using it.”

Bram’s gaze lingered on the sword for a moment, contemplative, before he replied, his tone softer than usual. “It’s not a matter of liking. It’s a matter of necessity.”

---

The team gathered their equipment and made their way to the docks as the sun dipped below the horizon. The city was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional cry of a gull.

Bram supposed this was his first real mission, so he wasn't sure what to make of it.

Bram walked a few steps behind Kunikida and Atsushi, watching the way Kunikida moved with purpose, his every step measured and deliberate. The faint scent of his blood lingered in the air; a subtle reminder of Kunikida’s humanity, of the fragility he hid so well behind his unyielding demeanor.

Bram felt the hunger stir again, a quiet, insistent whisper at the back of his mind. He clenched his jaw and pushed the thought aside. Now wasn’t the time.

“Keep your focus,” Kunikida said over his shoulder, as if sensing Bram’s distraction.

“Always,” Bram replied smoothly, though his tone betrayed a flicker of irritation. He needed to keep himself together.

As they reached the dockyards, the air grew colder, and the shadows seemed to deepen, taking on an almost tangible quality. Bram inhaled deeply, his senses sharpening as he scanned the darkness for any signs of movement.

The hunt had begun.

--

The docks had never been a pleasant place, but at night, they became something else entirely. The low murmur of the water lapping against the pier, the distant clang of metal, and the faint creak of ships swaying in the wind; it all added to the eerie stillness that seemed to settle in like a thick fog.

Bram, holding the holy sword with the kind of casual elegance only he could manage, wandered through the shadows as if it were a walk in the park. His movements were fluid, effortlessly gliding through the darkness, eyes half-lidded as he scanned the area. The creature was here, somewhere. He could feel it, a presence lurking just beyond his reach, but it didn’t particularly excite him.

Kunikida moved ahead, his eyes sharp and calculating as always, while Atsushi walked beside him, looking around anxiously. Bram, for his part, seemed barely interested in the mission. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, the holy sword hanging loosely at his side, a faint, bored expression on his face.

“Do you really need the sword?” Atsushi asked quietly again, his voice a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Bram looked down at the blade for a moment, raising an eyebrow as if the question itself was somehow beneath him. “Why wouldn’t I?” he replied, his voice slow, bored. “It’s a tool. The same as any other.” His words carried a certain apathy, as if this mission were nothing more than an inconvenience to him. “Besides, I like the weight of it in my hands. It’s comforting, if I dare say so myself.”

Atsushi hesitated, looking at Bram with a frown. “But... it’s so... dangerous. And, you don’t-”

“Don’t worry,” Bram cut him off, his tone flat. “I don’t intend to use it unless it’s necessary. Not every little thing requires a bloodbath, Atsushi. You should know that by now.”

His indifference was something that many have criticized about Bram before, typically Aya. She is of the opinion that he should care more about the world around him so people can even talk to him properly. Yet whenever he starts caring for the slightest thing, his remaining human emotions and desires get the better of him.

Maybe it is better this way.

Kunikida, who had been walking ahead of them, didn’t seem to pay much attention to the conversation. His focus was entirely on the surroundings, every detail meticulously accounted for. He didn’t even look back as he spoke. “Stay sharp. We’re getting close.”

Bram’s gaze flicked to Kunikida, his lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. There was something about Kunikida’s unwavering focus, his commitment to the mission, that always intrigued him. Or perhaps it was just that Kunikida was one of the few people who could hold his own in the presence of Bram’s indifference. He could see it in the other man’s posture, the tension in his shoulders, the subtle tightening of his jaw. Kunikida was always in control, always on edge, always... earnest.

“Always,” Bram muttered under his breath, his voice smooth and dismissive. The whole thing felt almost tedious to him.

---

They moved further into the docks, passing rusted metal structures and piles of discarded crates. The air grew thick with the stench of oil and saltwater, and the only sounds were the occasional scurrying of rats and the soft splash of something moving beneath the surface of the water. Bram could feel the presence of the creature drawing closer, the unnatural shift in the air, the way the shadows seemed to tremble.

It wasn’t long before they found it.

A dark smear of blood on the ground caught Kunikida’s attention. He knelt, studying it for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “It’s fresh,” he said, his voice tense. “We’re close.”

Bram’s gaze flicked over the scene, the faintest hint of boredom still in his expression, but his senses were sharp. He could feel it now, the low, pulsing energy that rippled through the air. Something was moving, something was waiting.

“I’d say we’re already here,” Bram murmured, his eyes half-closed as he surveyed the area.

Kunikida didn’t need to be told twice. “Stay alert. It’s likely to strike any moment now.”

Bram didn’t move, his posture relaxed but fully aware of the situation. His hand rested casually on the hilt of the holy sword, its cold, familiar weight grounding him. He didn’t mind the waiting; it was part of the game.

The first strike came without warning.

A blur of motion, too fast for even the trained eyes of Kunikida to catch, tore through the shadows. The creature emerged from the dark like a predator on the hunt, its eyes glowing with a feral hunger. It was quick, its movements almost unnatural, its claws slashing through the air in an instant.

Kunikida reacted first, his gun drawn and aimed in a flash. He fired, but the creature was already moving, evading the shot with ease.

Bram stood unmoving, his gaze locked on the creature, his fingers tracing the edge of the holy sword. His mind felt detached, like the entire scene was unfolding in slow motion. His heart beat evenly, as calm as ever, but beneath the surface, something stirred. He could feel the pull, the faintest whisper at the edge of his thoughts, the primal urge to strike, to sink the blade into the creature before him.

The creature lunged again, but this time, something unusual happened.

Its form began to shift.

At first, it was subtle- just a flicker in its features, a shift in its face. But then, slowly, horrifyingly, the creature’s features began to change, becoming distorted, morphing into something that almost resembled Bram himself.

Bram’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. His grip on the sword tightened as he took a step back, his instincts screaming at him to do something, but he hesitated.

It was only for a moment, but it was enough. The creature’s shifting face mirrored his own too closely, the eyes that stared back at him too familiar, too... real. His breath caught in his throat, the hunger inside of him flaring up, a burning desire to kill and sink his teeth into whatever was before him. The scent of blood and fear in the air only made it worse.

His vision blurred for a second. He could feel the horror clawing at him, urging him to strike, so he raises his sword in quick panic. But then, Kunikida’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, sharp and commanding.

“Bram! Don’t!”

Kunikida’s words snapped him back to reality. He blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.

“We’re not killing it,” Kunikida said, his voice firm. “We capture it, understand?”

Bram’s lips curled into a thin, almost bored smile. “I wasn’t planning to kill it,” he muttered, though the words didn’t carry the conviction they once might have.

“We didn't get to see it's ability at all, did we?”, Kunikida remarks, seemingly, confused.

..Bram doesn't share his findings with the others, even if he didn't so sure. Could it's ability be to transform into his opponent?

He really didn't want to look at this..creature any longer. It had been centuries since he had to stare at his own reflection.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Bram raised the holy sword and struck downward, but rather than delivering a killing blow, he expertly disarmed the creature, knocking it to the ground with a well-timed swipe.

The creature hissed, but its form began to flicker, losing its shape, reverting to something less humanoid, less real. Kunikida was already stepping forward, his gun trained on the creature as he moved to secure it.

“Good,” Kunikida said as he approached, his eyes never leaving the creature. “Let’s take it in.”

When Kunikida approached, the figure started shifting again, but seemingly into..a child?

Bram stares at Kunikida with wide eyes, not sure what to make of this transformation, but when Kunikida suddenly yelped loudly, he turns his gaze back to the offending creature.

It seems to be replaying a scene of a child exploding.

The count decides to raise his sword again, hitting the creature with the sword’s hilt until it stopped moving. When the creature finally became a big glop again, he turns to Kunikida in a questioning manner: “What..was that? You seemed particularly struck by it's display.”

“..I knew that child.”, Kunikida explains with a sullen expression, looking away in shame. “I think I know what it's ability is.”

Bram raises eyebrow. “Well, do share with the crew.”

“It seems to turn into your biggest fear. I could be wrong-”

Oh.

---

As they made their way back to the Agency, the night seemed to grow heavier. The tension in the air hadn’t entirely dissipated, and Bram could still feel the echoes of his own hunger lingering just beneath the surface. The creature’s strange transformation, its mirror of his own face, had unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

Was he..afraid of himself?

And yet, despite the unsettling feelings, he didn’t show it. He kept his usual nonchalance, his bored expression firmly in place. After all, it was just another mission, another hunt. Nothing more, nothing less.

But even as the night stretched on, and the Agency’s lights began to come into view, Bram couldn’t shake the feeling that the creature wasn’t the only thing he’d have to confront tonight.

---

The return to the Agency was supposed to be uneventful. The creature had been subdued, the mission a success. Bram had anticipated little more than a quiet walk through the stillness of the night, with only the sound of their footsteps to break the silence. But the universe had other plans.

They walked in silence, the weight of the night’s events settling over them like a cloak. Kunikida was in front, his jaw set in that rigid, determined way. Atsushi walked just behind him, his tiger form no longer needed now that the creature was dealt with. Bram trailed a few paces behind, his thoughts wandering. There was something about the quiet, the sort that made one’s thoughts feel all the more distant, all the more insistent, that made him restless.

It was then that the thought came to him unbidden: The creature... It was almost like looking into a mirror. The beast that had attacked; its primal nature, its ruthless desire to tear apart everything in its path; had shifted in a way that felt painfully familiar. When it had morphed in the heat of battle, its twisted form had briefly become something that resembled him. Its eyes, sharp and burning with hunger, had flashed with a recognition that unsettled him.

It was a predator. A hunter. But unlike him, it had been completely ruthless, without the slightest attempt at restraint.

He glanced up, his crimson eyes scanning the night. Was that who I had been? The question hovered, unanswered, lingering like a shadow in his mind.

The sensation of unease gnawed at him, but there was no time to dwell on it. The sound of movement ahead broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. The unmistakable flash of motion- too fast, too erratic- caught his attention.

A blur.

Before he could even process the danger, the enemy appeared out of nowhere. Their figure was a ghost in the shadows, as quick and elusive as a wisp of smoke. Bram's reflexes kicked in immediately. The holy sword slid from its sheath with the sound of metal gliding through air, and he moved, silent and lethal.

A flash of silver met his eyes, and the blade clashed against his own. There was no hesitation. He struck again, his movements fluid, as though he had done this a thousand times before.

But then there was another sound. A sharp breath. A gasp.

It wasn’t the enemy who’d made it.

Bram’s head snapped to the side. Atsushi.

The boy had been knocked to the ground during the skirmish. Blood dripped from a cut along his side, and the rich, metallic scent of it assaulted Bram’s senses like a sudden flood. His heart- if he could call it that- lurched in his chest, and an all-too-familiar sensation stirred deep within him.

Bram’s grip tightened on the sword. For a brief, horrifying moment, his vision clouded, his mind narrowing to one singular focus: the scent of blood. It overwhelmed him, filling every corner of his awareness. It was too much. Not this. He was no different than the creature.

Atsushi’s blood was calling to him.

The vampire snapped to attention. He could feel the weight of the sword in his hand, and for a split second, the temptation to simply strike- to follow his need- was so overwhelming that he nearly gave in.

He lunges at the boy with predatory intent and was about to bite.

Then, he saw Atsushi’s face. Fear in those wide yellow eyes. And suddenly, the hunger that had been clawing at him fell away, leaving only a sickening void in its wake.

He was not that creature. He wasn’t.

But in that instant, he almost had been.

Bram stood frozen, the sword still raised and fangs out, his body tense with the conflict inside him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but stare at the boy.

Then came Kunikida’s voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the stillness of the night.

“Bram. Stand down.”

He turns around, only to find an all too familiar gun pointing at him.

The words were simple, but they were enough. The authority in Kunikida’s tone broke through the haze of temptation and hunger that had clouded Bram’s thoughts. His mind cleared, and the predator receded back into the depths of his being.

He lowered the holy sword with a slow, deliberate movement, the weight of the blade now seeming much heavier than before. Kunikida’s gaze met his, but the man said nothing more. There was no accusation, no reprimand. Just an understanding, an unspoken acknowledgment of what had almost happened.

Bram swallowed hard, the taste of something bitter in his mouth. The taste of self-loathing. Of weakness.

Before he could think any further, the enemy struck again. It was a blur, another flash of motion that cut through the night with deadly speed.

This time, Bram reacted without hesitation. He moved with elegance and precision, slashing the attacker down in a single fluid motion. The figure crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around them. The attacker's eyes went wide, and then they were still.

He had killed him without even a second thought.

Atsushi was still kneeling nearby, his hand pressed to his side where blood stained his shirt. Bram’s gaze flicked to him, and for a moment, his thoughts ground to a halt.

Had he almost- ? No. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way.

Atsushi’s eyes locked with his for a brief second. A flash of understanding passed between them- an unspoken acknowledgment of the moment they’d just survived.

“It's okay, Bram. I trust you.”

Bram stood motionless for a moment longer, the weight of his actions- and his own nature- settling heavily on him. But then, without a word, he turned and began to walk away. He needed to get out of here. He needed to get away from the blood, away from the temptation, away from everything that reminded him of what he had almost become.

Kunikida was the first to speak, his voice strained as he called after him. “Bram. Where are you going?”

But Bram didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

“I..need to reflect,” was all he said, his voice colder than he intended.

He vanished into the night, fleeting in the shadows once more.

He was a terrible monster. He was the devil.

Chapter Text

The Agency office was dead silent.

Atsushi and Kunikida had barely stepped through the door before the yelling started.

"You lost him?! Again?!"

Aya’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and furious. She was standing in front of them with her hands on her hips, her foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor.

Atsushi flinched. Kunikida, ever the picture of discipline, sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"We didn’t lose him," Kunikida corrected, his voice tired. "He left."

Aya threw up her hands. "Oh, he left? That makes it so much better!" she snapped. "You two just let him go? What did you think was gonna happen? That he’d just cool off and come back like a lost dog?"

Atsushi shifted uncomfortably, gripping his sleeve. "It’s not that simple, Aya," he muttered. "You didn’t see him. Something was... wrong."

Aya scoffed. "Oh, you think?!"

She stormed toward them, her small frame radiating anger. She wasn’t intimidated by Kunikida’s authority or Atsushi’s anxious stammering.

"You knew he wasn’t doing well, and you just let him disappear into the night?! When he’s hungry?! When he’s upset?! Do you even know what you’re dealing with?!"

Atsushi didn’t answer. He did know. That was the worst part.

He could still see Bram’s face in his mind—his pale skin even paler than usual, his red eyes dark with something other than just hunger. The way he had hesitated before the final blow. And then the way he had not hesitated afterward.

The image of Bram’s sword slicing through the monster played on repeat in Atsushi’s head. There had been nothing elegant about it—no disdainful remarks, no half-hearted effort. He had cut it down in a single, brutal stroke. Effortless. Thoughtless. Merciless.

And the look on his face afterward—hollow.

Not victorious. Not relieved. Just... empty.

Kunikida sighed, rubbing his temples. "Aya, I understand your concern—"

"Do you? Do you?" she interrupted, her voice cracking slightly. "Because I thought you cared about him. I thought you two weren’t the kind of people to just throw someone away when they got a little dangerous!"

Kunikida’s jaw tightened. "That’s not what we’re doing."

"Then prove it," Aya challenged. She crossed her arms, her glare unwavering. "You are going to find him, right? Or are you just going to sit here and hope he comes back on his own?"

Atsushi hesitated. Kunikida didn’t answer right away either.

Aya’s eyes widened. "Oh my God. You weren’t going to look for him, were you?"

Kunikida exhaled sharply. "Aya, it's not that simple," he repeated, and this time, his voice was firm. "You’re acting like this is a missing person case. It’s not. This is a man—a vampire—who has just reaffirmed his belief that he’s a monster. He’s not going to want to be found."

Aya took a step forward, practically shaking with frustration. "So what?! That doesn’t mean you just give up! He—He’s probably out there right now, thinking that nobody cares! Thinking that there’s no reason to come back!"

Her voice cracked at the end, and Atsushi felt something deep in his chest twist painfully.

She was right. Bram had looked at them like they were far away, even as he stood in front of them. Like he had already decided he didn’t belong with them.

Atsushi swallowed hard.

Kunikida pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose again, inhaled deeply, then turned to Atsushi. "We can’t track him, not easily. He has no phone, no records, no predictable patterns of movement. And if he doesn’t want to be found, then we have to be prepared for the possibility that finding him means fighting him."

Aya scowled. "Are you really that scared of him?"

Kunikida’s eye twitched. "I respect him," he corrected sharply. "Bram is, was, a grneral. He’s a strategist. He’s unpredictable, and when backed into a corner, he will act. We can’t just chase him down like he’s a runaway dog. He’s already on edge."

"And leaving him alone will fix that?!" Aya snapped.

"That’s not what I’m saying," Kunikida growled.

Atsushi clenched his fists. His heart was pounding in his ears.

"We should look for him," he said finally, his voice quiet but certain. "I don’t think he—" He hesitated. "I don’t think he wants to hurt anyone. But if we leave him out there, alone, believing that he will... then he might do something he regrets."

Aya nodded sharply. "Finally, someone who understands basic human decency," she muttered.

Kunikida sighed, pressing his fingers into his temples. "Fine," he muttered. "We’ll come up with a plan."

Aya huffed. "Damn right, you will."

There was a beat of silence. Then Kunikida exhaled heavily and reached for his notepad. "If we’re doing this, we’re doing it smart. We need to think about where he’d go, what his next move would be. He doesn’t have money, and he doesn’t blend in easily. We have to think like him."

Atsushi nodded, but a heavy feeling sat in his chest.

He had a terrible feeling that Bram wasn’t just out there hiding.

He was out there proving himself right.

---

The city stretched before him in an endless sprawl of flickering streetlights and distant murmurs. It pulsed with life, indifferent to his presence, as though he were nothing more than a forgotten ghost haunting the edges of its existence.

Bram stood on the rooftop of an abandoned building, gazing down at the streets below. The wind tugged at his hair, whispering through the tattered fabric of his coat. His crimson eyes, dim beneath the weight of exhaustion, flickered as he observed the humans moving beneath him—so unaware, so fragile.

So… distant.

He wasn’t one of them. He had never been one of them.

For centuries, humans had whispered his name in fear, weaving stories of his horrors into myths and nightmares. They had called him a monster, and he had fought against it, had clung to the remnants of his former self, the self that had once been more than just fangs and blood and war.

But tonight, he felt none of that resistance.

Tonight, he accepted it.

He was a monster.

He had tried to pretend otherwise. Had let himself believe, even for a fleeting moment, that he could exist among them, that he could be something other than what he was. But he had seen the look in their eyes.

Atsushi’s fear.
Kunikida’s hesitation.
Their cautious steps, their measured words, their unwillingness to chase after him.

They knew what he was. They had known all along.

Bram exhaled, the breath leaving him in a slow, weary sigh. The hunger gnawed at him, sharp and insistent, but he ignored it. He had learned to endure. Had spent years in that coffin, trapped in his own starving body, knowing that his suffering was the only thing keeping the world safe from him.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He had spent so long yearning for freedom, and now that he had it, all he wanted was to disappear.

His fingers tightened at his sides. A ghost of his past self whispered in his ear, the voice of a commander who had once led armies, who had once believed in things like honor and purpose.

But that man was long gone.

His grip loosened. His gaze drifted to the alleyway below, where a lone figure staggered drunkenly out of a bar, their heartbeat erratic, their movements sluggish.

Bram licked his lips.

He had tried. He had tried to walk away, to be more than his hunger, but what had it ever given him? Even when he fought, even when he restrained himself, he was still feared. Still reviled.

What was the point?

The hunger was the only thing that had remained constant.

Bram closed his eyes for a moment, then leapt down, silent as the wind.

He landed effortlessly on the damp cobblestone, his presence unnoticed by the lone figure stumbling through the alleyway. The scent of alcohol and sweat clung to them, mingling with the underlying rhythm of their pulse—a fragile, unguarded thing.

Bram did not rush. He stepped forward with the grace of something ancient, something inevitable. The human, a middle-aged man wrapped in a threadbare coat, barely registered his presence until the last moment.

Then, his sluggish eyes met Bram’s crimson gaze.

Terror flickered there, a primal understanding of what stood before him. But before he could react—before he could even inhale a breath to scream—Bram’s hand curled around his throat, lifting him effortlessly against the alley wall.

The man struggled, weakly clawing at Bram’s wrist, but the fight was meaningless. Bram tilted his head slightly, watching him with an unreadable expression.

This was different from the battlefield. Different from slaying creatures that clawed at his throat. This was simple. This was instinct.

He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the man’s throat.

Fangs sank through skin, through muscle, through the delicate pulse that thrummed beneath. Warmth flooded his mouth, rich and heady, filling the void in his being like a long-forgotten elixir.

A shudder rippled through him.

It was intoxicating, the way life surged into him, the way it tethered him back to something real. This was what he was made for. This was what he had been denied for too long.

The human let out a strangled whimper, his struggles growing weaker, his heartbeat faltering beneath Bram’s grip.

It would be easy. So easy. A little more pressure, a few more moments, and the man would be nothing more than a drained husk, just another casualty lost to the night.

But something stopped him.

A memory—Kunikida’s voice, sharp and unwavering. "Stand down."
Atsushi’s horrified expression, the way his breath had hitched in his throat.

Bram scowled.

He was a monster. But he refused to be their kind of monster.

With a sharp inhale, he wrenched himself away from the man’s throat, a terrible wet sound emitting, tearing free with a snap of his fangs. The human sagged in his grip, dazed, his body trembling violently as shallow breaths rasped through his lips.

He would live. He would be weak for days—perhaps weeks—but he would live.

Bram licked the last remnants of blood from his fangs, then turned, dragging the man forward before tossing him unceremoniously onto the steps of a nearby shop. A streetlamp flickered above them, casting pale light over the scene.

It was a kindness. Or the closest thing to it that Bram could offer.

He stepped back into the shadows, his hunger momentarily sated, but the emptiness inside him remained.

There was nowhere left to go.

Nowhere, except back to the only place that had ever belonged to him.

--

The castle loomed in the moonlight, a husk of its former grandeur. Time had worn away its edges, ivy crawling over broken stone, shattered glass reflecting the pale glow of the night sky.

But it still stood.

And, as he passed through the grand, rotting doors, they were waiting.

The maidens.

Their presence was immediate—three figures emerging from the shadows, their eyes gleaming with hunger and reverence. As beautiful as they ever were. Their dresses were in tatters, their bodies eerily still until he entered the hall.

Then, as one, they stirred.

"Master," one of them whispered, stepping forward, her voice lilting and dreamlike. "You have returned to us." She drawls in a seductive manner, smitten by her Masters reappearance.

A second figure, taller and sharper, tilted her head, drinking in the scent of blood that still lingered on him.

"You fed." Her lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer. "Does that mean you finally accept yourself? Stopped playing those human games of yours?"

The third, the quietest, simply reached for his hand. Not in servitude, but in something older, something knowing.

Bram did not answer.

He stood at the threshold of his ruined kingdom, his past and future coiled around him like ivy strangling stone.

And for the first time in a long, long while…

He wasn’t sure whether he had returned home—

—or walked into his own grave.

Well, it's not like he'll ever have one, anyway.

Chapter Text

The great hall once welcomed kings.

Now it welcomed only dust.

"Prepare the hall," Bram had murmured with a wave of his gloved hand upon entering, voice like ash trailing on wind. But even as the command passed his lips, he heard the echo mock him. To whom did he speak? To cobwebs? To ghosts?

The castle groaned awake in answer.

The crumbling arches overhead still held their majesty, just barely. Moonlight slithered in through the fractures in the stained glass, painting the stones in hues of blood and bone. It was always like this: a gothic parody of grandeur. All dressed up for a court that would never dance again.

A fire had been lit, perhaps by the maidens in anticipation. The flames crackled politely in the hearth, like old acquaintances too tired to rekindle anything meaningful. Bram stood before it for a moment, as if hoping its warmth might stir something. But the chill beneath his skin was not the kind that fire knew how to fight.

He drifted through the hall, his boots whispering against the marble, long hair trailing behind like pale silk soaked in the past. Statues loomed on either side of him, angels with broken wings and ancient monsters laughing from the corners. Portraits of longdead nobles watched him pass, their eyes painted with eternal disapproval.

He paused before one. A younger version of himself gazed down from the canvas: regal, yet with a softness that he may never meet again. Beside him stood his dear wife and child (oh how he's failed them-), each one pretending like this could ever last. A crown tilted just-so, as though he'd never cared enough for royalty to wear it properly.

He hated that face.

Oh how Naïve he had been.

The silence thickened. He closed his eyes and inhaled. It smelled like wax and rot and secrets.

In the distance, the vampire maidens stirred.

"What’s a vampire court without its master?" one of them purred, her voice syrupy and clinging.

He didn’t reply. He just watched the fire curl around the logs like serpents devouring their own tails.

The flames hissed.

He felt his sins crawling on his back.

They hadn’t stayed buried. Not even under all that grandeur.

His hands found the arms of the throne, the old one, his real one, and he sat, not like a king reclaiming his seat, but like a condemned man finally collapsing into the chair before judgment.

He looked down at his gloves. Still stained from the alley.

A face, halfmorphed to mirror his own, bloomed again behind his eyes. The monster. The thing they’d fought.

No, not they. He. He had slain it. He had broken its back and tasted its blood and seen his own reflection flash back in its dying eyes.

And they had seen it too, Atsushi. Kunikida. The horror etched into their faces was clearer than any mirror.

Bram dragged his fingers down the front of his shirt, where no blood remained, but he felt it. Always.

He had fled the scene not because he was ashamed.

But because he was afraid he wasn’t.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the velvet of the throne. He tried to remember the thrill of power. The ecstasy of domination.

But all he saw were the ones he’d left behind.

Atsushi’s worried frown. Kunikida’s clenched jaw.

Even the girl, Aya, with her firebrand rage and terrible affection.

What a fool he was, to have believed he could have both worlds. That a monster could sip tea with mortals and not crave their throats.

The fire cracked again. He opened his eyes slowly, eyes like rusted rubies.

"So," he whispered to the room, to the dust, to the ghosts,

"This is what I am, then."

The silence agreed.

The court was ready.

And its master was broken.

--

The night outside was waning, its silver edge bleeding into gray. Within the castle, time curled in upon itself like the tail of some sleeping beast.

Though, that would imply this court held a Beast. He hadn't he'd that power for a long time.

Bram did not sleep, how could he? Rest was for the innocent, and he had left innocence in some nameless century.

He had not spoken since giving the order to prepare the hall. The maidens had obeyed, their rustling silks and haunting laughter echoing faintly down the corridors like the last lines of a poem he no longer remembered, mocking him. He wandered now, without direction, without desire, until something tugged at him. An itch, a question.

How were they alive?

The castle was dead. No towns nearby, no wanderers lost in the dying woods, no war to scavenge from. The world had moved on, learned how to avoid places that dripped with the echo of his name. And yet, his thralls were thriving, faces full, eyes sharp, and lips red with fresh offerings.

He halted, as if struck. His thoughts sharpened like knives. The maidens had always fed on what he allowed, he had ruled with rituals, with structure. But now... where had they been feeding?

As if summoned by his thoughts, they appeared.

Three of them, gliding down the corridor, long limbs bare beneath translucent lace, like the phantoms of drowned brides. They smiled in unison, as if they shared one mouth between them.

“My Lord,” the tallest cooed, voice wrapped in velvet and fog, “you haven’t asked about our hunger.”

Bram’s voice was low, unreadable. Thinly veiled disgust he's tried to repress taint his words. “No.”

“Don’t you wonder?” another chimed in, a childish lilt to her cadence. She leaned toward him, so close her breath cooled the air between them. “What sustains us, in this Asylum you’ve returned to?”

He didn’t answer. Only narrowed his eyes.

The third maiden, smallest and most severe, stepped forward with the grace of a guillotine. “Come,” she said. “We’ll show you.”

They turned in perfect sync, like dancers midwaltz, and began drifting down a side hallway Bram had not thought of in years, narrow and descending, lit only by the pulse of old magic etched into the stones.

A long pause.

Then Bram followed.

Downward they went, into the castle’s belly. The walls grew damp with age and memory. Thorny veins of dark ivy had crept through cracks, crawling like ink into forgotten corners. The further they descended, the more the air changed, thickening, vibrating. It smelled of old iron and something else, something sweeter and more rotten.

Then, a voice: 

"You truly are the devil's incarnate"

Bram shudders. Just a memory, just another failure on his mounting pile of wrongs.

The essence of that peculiar man ghost over the corridor of the dungeon, reminding him of what he used to be.

He closes his eyes in thought.

The maidens moved with unearthly stillness, untouched by the gloom. Bram walked slowly, each step echoing with guilt he could not name, his boots scraping on ancient dust. The very stones beneath his feet trembled, as if recognizing him and fearing him all at once.

The staircase ended in a rusted gate. One of the maidens pressed a palm against it; it opened not with a creak, but with a soft exhale, as if the castle itself had been holding its breath.

They entered a chamber cloaked in shadows.

Candles flickered. Chains hung from the ceiling like forgotten jewelry. Coffins lined the walls, some open, some nailed shut. The air reeked of containment, of quiet suffering dressed in elegance.

And at the center, an altar of crimson marble. Behind it, draped in fine silks as if awaiting an audience, was a figure.

Bound.

A human.

Bram froze.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

The figure was suspended by silver-threaded bindings, arms limp, head lolling slightly. His chest rose and fell, but barely (he tries to hide the sigh of relief).His hair, pitch black, fell in loose twintails, paling towards the ends, stark against skin so ghostly it glowed like salt beneath the candlelight. He looked almost sculpted. Like he could be one of his own.

For a heartbeat, Bram thought the maidens had turned one of their own. But no, there was warmth to the man’s neck. Faint, but real. A heartbeat. Blood.

A bloodbag.

Of course.

"An exquisite piece, isn't he?" the childlike maiden purred. "Hard to catch. He fought like a little devil. Still does, sometimes."

Bram’s hand twitched at his side.

He stepped closer.

The closer he came, the more familiar the man looked. A sharp jawline, hollowed out face, lips parted slightly from shallow breathing, a furrow still faint in his brow despite unconsciousness.

A whisper from memory: Atsushi, rattling off names, telling stories late at night to pass the hours. Tales of his old friend, his sometimes-rival. A boy with eyes like blades and lungs full of pride.

“…Akutagawa.”

The name slipped from Bram like a confession.

The maidens grinned wider.

"You know him," one said, delighted.

Another twirled around the altar, trailing her fingers over Akutagawa’s arm. "A precious thing. You could make him yours, you know. Feed him your blood. Bind him to you. He’d be... loyal. A new knight for your court.”

Bram’s gaze fell to his own hands.

He hadn't ever known this man, and well.. he doesn't really know how he stands with anyone he used to know anymore. 

He needed a reminder of what he's doing this for.

He pulled off a glove.

Then the other.

They were scarred, twisted from centuries of battle and bondage. Ugly things. Unworthy.

Still, he raised one wrist. Sank his own fangs in, quickly, cleanly. Blood welled up like a promise.

He moved to press it to Akutagawa’s lips.

But something caught the light.

Around the boy’s neck, barely visible beneath his collar, gleamed silver.

A crucifix.

Bram stopped.

Time froze.

The symbol sizzled in his vision, holy and defiant.

His blood dripped to the marble floor.

He dropped his wrist. Reached out instead, and touched the crucifix.

It burned. Terribly.

Pain seared up his fingers like wildfire. He hissed, but didn’t pull away. Clutched it harder, letting it brand him, letting it remind him.

He looked down at Akutagawa.

At the way his brow remained furrowed.

Even in sleep, he resisted.

And Bram, he could no longer lie to himself.

The thought hit him like a cathedral collapsing: I really am terrible.

His knees weakened. The maidens’ voices grew sharp with confusion.

“What’s wrong, my Lord?”

“Why hesitate?”

“Is he not worthy?”

He did not answer. Didn’t dare.

“I…” he murmured, voice trembling. He lowers his wrist and looks away in shame at what he was about to do. “must replenish. First.”

He turned.

Without feeding. Without blood. Without dignity.

And left.

He locked the door behind him.

And when he reached his chambers, he shut the world out.

Sank to the floor, his gloves discarded, the crucifix's burn still smoking faintly against his hand.

And there, in the dark, Bram revelled in his misery, sinking his claws he oh so wanted to hide to the ground.

Not like a monster.

But like a man who remembered what it was like to be human. Unfortunately.

Chapter Text

The light filtering through the agency windows was pale and dusty.

Afternoon sunlight crawled across the wooden floorboards, glinting off the scattered cups of halffinished tea and neglected paperwork. The long table in the conference room was surrounded by slouched shoulders, pinched brows, and the kind of tired silence that comes after too many dead ends.

They've been investigating for a while now.

Yosano tapped a nail against her teacup, eyes narrowed in thought. Ranpo sat cross-legged on the chair beside her, lazily sucking on a lollipop, though his gaze drifted to the corner of the room more often than usual. Kunikida stood by the board, flipping through a list of recent sightings, all inconclusive. Fukuzawa sat serene in thought.

“He’s not in the city anymore,” Kunikida finally said, voice quiet but certain. “Every lead we’ve gotten comes back cold.”

Tanizaki was hunched over a map, his finger tracing the tree line north of Yokohama. “Maybe he crossed into the forest… that place has always had some strange reports. Animals going missing. Light distortions. That sort of thing.”

Well, he'd be right in his element if he did that.

Atsushi stared down at his own hands, chewing his lip. “He could be hiding there. He wouldn’t want to be seen.”

“He doesn’t want to be found,” Kunikida corrected gently. “Not after what happened.”

Kunikidas concern grows wider with every moment. 

Dazai isn't helping much either.

"Well, what's the issue anyway? He can handle himself, and if he doesn't want to be found, let him!" He quips, slouching lazily on his chair. "What if he left the country? He could do that easily with his sort of power."

Aya was pacing. Her boots echoed softly in the room. “No- We have to find him. You said it yourself, he’s not like other vampires. He protected us.”

Yosano looks away with heavy guilt.

Kunikida sipped his tea and gave Aya a glance. “You weren’t there, Aya. You didn’t see what he did to that thing. The way he moved. His eyes…”

There was a long pause.

“He looked haunted,” Atsushi said, finally. “But not like… someone who wants help. Like someone who thinks he doesn’t deserve it.”

“He’s not the only one who gets to decide that,” Aya muttered. "I'm getting tired of his sacrificial behaviour "

Kunikida turned and wrote "Operation: Retrieval a Brooding Vampire" on the board, drawing a neat underline beneath it. “We’ll need a strategy. If he’s holed up somewhere, we can’t just go anywhere and hope to find him. We’ll need a clue. A lure.”

Fukuzawa adds his own input. "Even if we manage to find a clue on where he is, he probably wouldn't want to see us, considering he ran to begin with. Something like this requires a disguise."

“Why not just go as ourselves?” Aya asked.

“Because he’s hiding from us.” Kunikida sighed. “He doesn’t trust himself. So why would he trust the people he left behind?”

Ranpo finally shifted, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with a soft pop. “Maybe we don’t go as ourselves.”

Everyone looked at him.

He smirked. “Pretend to be someone else. A stranger. A traveler. Someone he won’t see coming.”

Atsushi looked hesitant. “You mean… lie to him?”

Ranpo shrugged. “You all act like that’s new.”

Kunikida was about to respond when the door slammed open, sharp as a gunshot.

“Where the hell is he?!”

All heads snapped to the doorway, where Chuuya Nakahara stood like a stormcloud. His coat fluttered behind him, eyes ablaze.

"Calm down slug, woke up on the wrong side of bed today?", Dazai chuckles. Chuuya shoots him a glare.

“Where’s Akutagawa?” he barked.

Kunikida stepped forward, instantly tense. “He’s not here.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched. “Don’t play dumb with me. He’s been gone for two days. No word. No trail. That’s not like him.”

“We haven’t seen him,” Kunikida replied evenly. “Why would he be here?”

“I don’t know,” Chuuya growled. “Maybe because your agency is always mixed up in weird shit. Everyone is going crazy, so where is he?!”

Everyone stiffened slightly.

“Wait,” Atsushi said, standing slowly. “You think we took Akutagawa?”

“I didn’t say that,” Chuuya snapped. “But I’m running out of ideas, and you’re the only ones who'd be capable. Not to mentioned you having a vampire freak war criminal hiding somewhere."

“That freak saved our lives,” Aya shot back.

Chuuya’s eyes flicked to her. “Then maybe he can tell me where my subordinate went.”

Kunikida raised a hand, trying to ease the tension. “We’ll help you look. But we’ve had no signs of Akutagawa’s disappearance. This is the first we've even heard of it and thats...really concerning.”

“Then what the hell are you sitting here for?” Chuuya barked. “Get off your asses and move.”

Yosano stood, folding her arms. “We’re working on it. But we don’t run headfirst into a war without a plan.”

“I don’t care how you do it,” Chuuya hissed. “Just find him. Or Mori’s not going to sit still for long.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming again behind him.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

Tanizaki looked around. “Should we… focus on Akutagawa first?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Kunikida said quietly. “We owe the Port Mafia. And if Akutagawa really is missing… then Bram can wait.”

Aya slumped back into her seat, frustrated but silent.

Atsushi looked toward the window, where the fading sunlight painted long shadows across the rooftops. His fingers are silently shaking, thinking of his rival lost.

In the distance, something dire was waking.

And underground, in a place untouched by time, a pair of eyes fluttered open.

--

Akutagawa’s eyes fluttered open, the world around him shrouded in an oppressive stillness. The dim light of an unseen source barely grazed the edges of the cold, damp stone beneath him. Every breath felt heavier, more deliberate, as if his very lungs were weighed down by the weight of the unrelenting darkness surrounding him. The acrid scent of decay lingered in the stale air, mixing with something faintly metallic, a trace of his own blood, perhaps, or the lingering scent of his captors.

His limbs were stiff, the blood that had been drained from his body seeping into the very walls of the room, leaving him an unwilling guest in this tomblike place. The remnants of the pain from his last waking moments hung like a specter over him. He was trapped here, in this prison of stone and shadow, a mere ghost in this forsaken castle.

The memories of his capture replayed in fragmented flashes. Figures clad in lace, cold hands dragging him into this cryptlike hell, the fangs that sunk into his skin as if he were but a mere vessel to be emptied. Over and over, he had been emptied, drained of his essence, and then left to recover, only to be drained once again.

He hasn't truly been awake for a long time. Yet, now that he's conscious, he knows what's to come.

He remembers. He remembers how he watched the old human, right after his captures, get drained completely and thrown out. 

Akutagawa isn't intimidated easily. But he sure was the first time it happened.

He's tried to summon his ability multiple times, only to his failure.

It never works when he needs it most.

Now, he's just accepted his inevitable death. Although, he's not even sure when it's coming anymore.

There was no clear sense of time here. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? It felt as though he had been here for an eternity, and yet, his mind was sharp, perhaps too sharp, each thought laced with an edge of panic and confusion.

The creak of the heavy door echoed through the chamber, dragging him from his reverie. Akutagawa’s body tensed instinctively, but he remained still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, controlled breaths. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know that someone had entered.

He already knows what's coming. If he pretends to be asleep, maybe they won't do it.

But something is different. The footsteps aren't sly, fast and accompanied by giggles. They're heavy. Old. Malevolent.

Slowly, carefully, he allowed his eyes to flicker open, the barest hint of light creeping in through the cracks in the stone walls. A figure moved within the shadows, tall, elegant, and utterly out of place in this forsaken room.

The man before him was pale, as if the moon itself had kissed his skin. His features were finely carved, almost too perfect, with an air of something ancient and unyielding about him. His dark attire, so precise in its cut, yet tattered, looked centuries old, an anachronism in this grim reality. But it was his eyes that struck Akutagawa the most, blood tainted eyes that seemed to hold a sorrow so profound, it felt as though the weight of the ages had settled within their depths.

Akutagawa’s breath caught in his throat, the confusion of the moment pulling him from the haze of exhaustion. He didn’t recognize this man, he couldn’t have, but the air around him held a strange weight, a quiet power that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of the room. This was no ordinary visitor.

A vampire. He had to be. A powerful one at that.

Yet, despite the pulse of dread that surged within him, Akutagawa remained still, his gaze locking with the stranger's. A delicate tension filled the space between them, each of them measuring the other with quiet scrutiny.

“Awake, at last,” the vampire’s deep voice broke through the silence, smooth as velvet yet edged with an emotion Akutagawa couldn’t quite place, sorrow, perhaps, or something far older. It lingered in the air, soft and haunting. “I feared I might find you already gone.”

Akutagawa, disoriented but not entirely scared, didn’t immediately speak. His mind raced, the shards of his thoughts slowly piecing themselves together, but the man before him was an enigma, a riddle that begged to be solved. How had he found him here? What was his purpose?

His mouth felt dry, hoarse from both the lack of blood and the weight of uncertainty. “Who... are you?” His voice, though weak, still carried a sharpness, an edge of something fierce that refused to be entirely dulled by the weakness in his body.

The stranger, this vampire, didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, a thoughtful gesture, as though contemplating the right words. And when he spoke again, there was a strange gentleness to his tone, a melancholy that deepened the mystery of his presence.

“I did not expect to meet you like this,” the vampire said, his gaze lingering, not with the predatory hunger one might expect, but with something far more complex, curiosity, perhaps, or regret. He stepped forward, and with measured care, placed a simple tray of bread and fruit beside Akutagawa. The offering was almost too human, too mundane, in the face of everything else that had transpired here. “I brought you something to eat.”

Akutagawa’s gaze flickered to the tray, but he didn’t reach for it. His eyes, dark and fatigued, tracked the stranger’s every move, waiting for something more. He had never seen this man before, he would have remembered. But something about him, the air of ancient sadness he carried, the way his presence twisted the very space between them, it unsettled Akutagawa.

There is only one person he thought it could be.

He shouldn't be here.

Before he could voice his suspicions or questions, something caught his attention. The vampire’s gaze, fixed, unwavering, was drawn to the crucifix that hung from Akutagawa’s neck.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Akutagawa’s fingers instinctively curled around the pendant, a small, silver cross, the metal cool against his skin. He didn’t speak at first, only let the silence stretch between them, feeling the weight of the stranger’s eyes on the symbol that had been with him for so long.

The vampire’s gaze remained fixed, an intensity in those eyes that made Akutagawa’s pulse quicken, though he couldn’t quite place why. It wasn’t fear, no, it was something else, something quieter, more profound.

Akutagawa, noticing the lingering attention, finally broke the silence. His voice was quiet, almost reverent, as he spoke, though there was surprisingly no malice in his tone.

He knows he should be weary of strangers, but something about the man's soft expression betrays his heavy words.

“It was my sister’s,” he murmured, his gaze now lowered to the crucifix. His fingers brushed against the cool surface, the metal cold against the warmth of his skin. “It’s meant to repel evil.”

The vampire’s gaze shifted from the cross to Akutagawa’s face, the guilt in his eyes deepening. He stepped closer, as if drawn by some unspoken pull. There was no anger in his expression, only a quiet understanding, a depth of feeling that seemed out of place. He didn’t respond immediately, but his movements were deliberate, almost reverent.

Then, with slow, careful precision, the vampire removed his gloves. Akutagawa’s eyes followed the movement, widening as he noticed the deep burn marks, the delicate yet scarred hands, the pale skin that seemed as though it belonged to another time altogether. The vampire's fingers, delicate and graceful, hovered just above the crucifix as if hesitating.

And then, with a quiet sigh, the vampire reached out.

Akutagawa’s breath hitched as he watched, an unspoken understanding passing between them. He knew what would happen. The cross, though small, was no mere trinket. And as the vampire’s hand came into contact with it, the air seemed to crackle. The metal burned, an invisible heat that seared the vampire’s flesh.

The pain was immediate, fierce, and unforgiving.

Bram hissed, his hand jerking back with a sharp gasp, his eyes wide with the surprise of the searing agony. He looked down at the reddened mark on his hand, the flesh still smoking where the cross had made contact. There was no fury in his expression, no rage or aggression, only a deep, pained acceptance.

Akutagawa watched, his gaze steady, his mind shifting between emotions. He felt no satisfaction, no triumph. Only an overwhelming empathy for the man who had borne this pain, for so long.

“I did expect that,” Bram whispered, his voice hushed as he looked down at his hand. His eyes lifted to meet Akutagawa’s, and for the first time, there was a quiet vulnerability in his gaze. A vulnerability that Akutagawa, in his own way, understood.

Akutagawa said nothing at first. He only watched as the vampire pulled away, taking a step back, his posture no longer so regal, no longer so sure.

“I see…” Akutagawa murmured softly, his voice barely a breath. It wasn’t condemnation in his words, but something more, a recognition, perhaps, of the silent suffering they both shared. He glanced down at the crucifix once more, his fingers gently touching the cool metal.

“I see,” he repeated, this time with more understanding.

He knows what this should mean. Yet, he would prefer this guilt ridden man over anybody else.

Together, they sit quietly for a while, just watching eachother. 

Though that exchange brought a deep understanding.

Chapter Text

The forest had been deathly still since the night he returned.

The castle, his castle, remained half asleep in the fog, entombed in ivy and silence. Though the vampires lingered like stitched shadows through its halls, there was no music, no firelight, no warmth. Only the hush of ancient stone and the way the moon carved long, cruel slits of light into the floor.

Bram stood beneath the remnants of a ruined archway overlooking the mist choked courtyard, one hand pressed loosely to the wall. The cold did not touch him, yet he stood like someone trying to feel something, as if stone or wind could distract from the storm churning behind his eyes.

He still felt the mark.

Where the crucifix had burned his hand, the flesh had already healed, but he remembered the pain. The kind that wasn’t just heat or injury but something deeper, an accusation. A curse. A reminder.

The cross had glinted like judgment, and the bloodbag's words had followed him even now:

"It was my sister’s. It’s meant to repel evil."

Bram looked down at his gloved hand. Beneath the fabric, the skin was whole, but he imagined it burning still.

What a monster.

He had not fed since that night.

The maidens had offered him blood. Had tempted him with a prisoner kept alive for convenience. But the image of Akutagawa’s weary eyes… the tremor in his voice as he said “I see…”..it echoed too loudly for him to follow through.

What kind of creature did that to a man and called it mercy?

He turned from the courtyard, the broken iron gate creaking faintly behind him, and disappeared back into the maze of corridors.

---

The trees were unnaturally tall this deep in the woods, bending toward the path like they were listening. Mist clung to the undergrowth, curling around the feet of the lone traveler now stepping carefully over roots and sunken stones.

Lady Florence, as she was known on paper, moved with grace. Slow, purposeful steps, the kind practiced over weeks. Her violet skirts swept the moss, her veil pulled low beneath the brim of her bonnet, casting her face in faint shadow.

But beneath the fabric, Kunikida Doppo was listening to everything.

"..You want to go after Bram instead?"

Kunikida clenches his fist and looks away in embarrassment, before straightening up and hardening with resolve.

"Yes sir. I believe this to be the most efficient way to go forward", he points at his pinboard, "The disappearences happened at the same time, too close to eachother to be a coincidence. So, it's very likely that they're linked. And.. we're not wasting time like this if we split up."

Fukuzawa sips at his cup of tea. "..Very well. I see your point. But why should I consider you to go? You're a very valuable asset to us" he frowns in contempt.

Once again, Kunikida looks away. "Bram seems to be...oddly drawn to me. If anyone can get through to him, it's me. Besides...I think I still have that disguise somewhere."

His heartbeat was steady. His breath light. Every word he’d rehearsed, every document forged, every gesture practiced in the mirror at 3 AM was ready.

Florence was meant to be a minor noble from Ireland. Quiet. Educated. Mourning a dead husband and in search of seclusion. The forest, she claimed, had drawn her. The castle’s silhouette had beckoned her like a painting from a dream.

The Agency’s signal device, a disguised communicator pin, was sewn discreetly into her collar.

She was close now.

And then, it appeared.

The castle loomed suddenly between the twisted trees, tall and angular, its towers jutting out like blackened teeth against the gray sky. Mist spiraled lazily around its windows, and the vines crawling up its stones looked less like plants and more like veins.

Lady Florence paused at the gate, letting the image of it soak in.

Then, behind her, came the sound of footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate. And impossibly quiet.

She turned slowly.

He emerged from the mist like a ghost pulled from a dream, or maybe a nightmare. Tall, thin, pale as snowfall. His coat fluttered slightly with each step, boots silent against the cold earth. His eyes, half hidden by the fall of his white hair, glinted red even in the dim.

His expression, however, was not one of menace.

It was one of grief.

He stopped a few paces away, the mist curling around him like a cloak. The wind shifted, pulling her veil slightly to the side.

And Bram froze.

The red in his eyes widened, flickering like embers stirred by breath.

His lips parted faintly, though no sound came.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, he whispered it.

“...Florence?”

Kunikida’s breath caught in his chest.

He hadn’t expected that name to already be hers in Bram’s memory.

Bram took a slow step forward, his boots brushing aside the mist. He looked like a man watching a ghost cross the threshold of his own grave.

“You can’t be real,” he murmured. “This is… a dream. A memory.”

Florence (Kunikida) dipped her head, her voice carefully pitched low and soft. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ve been traveling. I got lost in the woods.”

Bram’s head tilted slightly.

“You’re wearing her face.”

..What?

The silence that followed was taut, trembling with something unspeakable. The fog thickened. Even the birds refused to sing.

“I… don’t understand,” Florence whispered.

Bram seemed to collapse into himself a little. He turned away, hand running along the rusted bars of the open gate.

“Then it isn’t your fault,” he murmured. “The world likes to haunt me. Maybe it sent you as punishment.”

Kunikida falters. "I'm..sorry.."

Kunikida stayed still, letting the act hang delicately in place. He didn’t speak again until Bram looked back.

“You’ll freeze out here,” Bram said at last, softly. “Come inside. It’s not safe.”

Florence followed.

---

They walked in near silence. The only sound was the soft rustle of Florence’s skirts against the marble and the distant groan of the old building settling into itself. Cobwebs lined the corners. Ancient portraits watched from cracked frames.

Bram didn’t speak for several minutes.

When he finally did, it was quiet.

“You… speak more softly now. You used to be sharp with your tongue. Even when you were kind.”

Florence’s steps slowed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been ill. It’s changed me.”

Bram accepted that without question.

He turned down a hallway, leading them past old tapestries. One of them showed a battle. Vampires and hunters, Bram among them, the center figure, young and inhumanly beautiful, fangs bared.

“You died,” Bram said abruptly. “Years ago. I buried you beneath the rose tree in the courtyard. The thorns still grow taller every year. I speak to them sometimes. But they never answer.'

Florence looked away. “You must have cared deeply for her.”

“I did,” Bram said, and something in his voice cracked. “She was my only tether to… something softer.”

They stopped at a grand hall. Dust coated the long table, but a fire crackled faintly in the hearth as if someone had tried to make the place welcoming.

Bram gestured. “You may rest here. I’ll have something brought for you.”

Florence stepped forward carefully. “You’re being too kind.”

Bram’s eyes met hers. “Am I?”

There was no threat behind the question. Just pain.

He lingered a moment longer, as if trying to memorize her face.

Then he turned away and vanished down the corridor.

The castle had been built to trap sound.

Even the click of Florence’s—rather Kunikida’s—boots against the stone floors was swallowed by thick tapestries and rotting velvet. The deeper he wandered, the quieter it became. Every hallway branched like an artery, every shadow bled memory. And at the center of it all was a feeling, dense and still: grief.

Kunikida kept a hand close to the veil at his throat, as if it could hide the tension in his jaw or the unease crawling through his spine.

He had lost track of time since being shown to the guest wing, if it could even be called that. The room was adorned with moth eaten brocade and furniture that belonged in a painting. No one came for hours. No voices echoed beyond the corridor, and the silence pressed into him like a second skin.

He couldn't stop thinking about Bram.

That last look on his face. The guilt. The wild fear. The way his sword had fallen from his fingers like it weighed too much to carry.

Kunikida hadn’t really wanted this mission.

Not because it was too risky, but because he didn’t know what he would say if Bram looked at him again with those eyes. The ones that knew they had already been judged.

And now, he walked these corridors, an imposter with perfect posture, searching for a man who had once been a weapon, a prisoner, a monster, and something dangerously close to family.

It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.

He rounded a corner and paused.

The air was different here. Cold. More bitter than before. There was no furniture in this part of the castle, only bare stone, splintering archways, and dustthick tapestries fluttering just slightly in a breeze that didn’t exist.

Kunikida ran a gloved hand along the wall. There were carvings here, barely visible, almost erased by time. Sigils. Names. Marks etched in haste or ceremony. He tried not to think about what they meant.

He moved forward.

Then he heard it.

A voice, low, too low to make out. And another, tighter, sharper, like it belonged to someone with pain embedded in their throat.

He stopped, shoulders stiffening.

A door was ajar to his right. Candlelight flickered beyond it. He stepped silently toward it, placing one hand on the frame, breath held.

He saw them.

Bram knelt in the center of the chamber, half-lit by candlelight, his hair hanging limp over his shoulder, his gloves discarded beside him. Across from him sat Akutagawa, shackled but awake.

Kunikida’s chest tightened.

His assumption was right. 

Akutagawa looked... not quite broken, but close. Hollow cheeked. Pale. The bones in his wrists pressed starkly against the cuffs. But his eyes were open, alert, flicking over Bram with confusion, maybe even concern.

The vampire's hands hovered in the air, trembling.

Between them lay the crucifix.

Kunikida froze as he watched Bram reach out slowly, as if performing some ancient rite.

The moment the tips of his fingers brushed the silver, the air warped.

Smoke rose. A soft hiss echoed. Bram’s breath caught audibly in his throat, but he didn’t flinch away. He pressed his palm down harder until his skin singed and blistered.

“What are you doing?” Akutagawa asked, voice raw.

Bram’s eyes fluttered closed. “I- I need to-”

“Why?” Akutagawa didn’t sound angry. He sounded… confused. Genuinely so.

“You're hurting yourself on purpose,” he continued after a pause, his voice low but steadier. “You’ve done it more than once. I don’t understand.”

Bram looked down at his burnt hand, the faint curls of smoke fading into the cold air.

“To feel,” he murmured. “To remind myself.”

“Of what?”

“That I don’t belong here. That I’m still capable of doing harm. And that I deserve to be punished for it.”

Kunikida stepped back into the shadows.

His stomach twisted.

This wasn’t how he’d pictured the mission going. He was supposed to sneak in, blend in, play the role of a traveler seeking shelter. Maybe charm Bram into opening up, and find some weakness or opening to bring him back, or at least assess the threat.

But this?

This was a man unraveling.

And Akutagawa, chained, starved, still finding it in himself to watch Bram not with disgust, but a slow, gnawing empathy, was not what he’d expected either.

He peered in again.

Akutagawa had shifted slightly forward. The chains groaned.

“You said you didn’t take any blood from me,” he said quietly. “So why keep me here?”

Bram shook his head. “I didn’t put you here. I only just returned to this place. The thralls… the ones who remain… I don’t even know how long they’ve been doing this.”

Akutagawa narrowed his eyes. “Then why don’t you stop them?”

Bram looked away. “Because I don’t know if I’m any better than they are. And if I take that cross from your hands, I’ll stop hesitating. So I let it burn me. So I remember.”

Akutagawa was silent.

Then, softly, he said, “You’re not the only one who regrets the things they’ve done.”

Bram’s eyes flicked up.

“I was a monster before I became..this,” Akutagawa added. “That cross doesn’t burn me, but it doesn’t absolve me either. So maybe stop trying to hurt yourself and start acting like someone who wants to make it right.”

The words hung there, half accusation, half lifeline.

Bram didn’t speak.

But his hands curled into fists in his lap, and for the first time, Kunikida saw something behind his eyes that wasn’t just despair. It was still grief. Still, but maybe also longing.

And Kunikida realized something then.

He wasn’t just here to assess the threat.

He was here to figure out if Bram still had anything left in him worth saving.

And the man sitting in chains across from him might be the only one still reaching out.

Kunikida waited.

He pressed his back to the damp stone wall just behind the archway, breath low in his throat, counting slowly until Bram's silhouette finally disappeared up the stairwell. The click of his boots echoed longer than it should have, sharp against the hollow silence of the crypt.

When he was certain he was alone, Kunikida exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding.

He stepped out.

The basement chamber was colder than he remembered. The heavy air curled with something sour and sweet, aged blood, crushed herbs, magic, rot. The candles lining the stone walls guttered faintly, burning low, as if afraid of this place.

He didn’t call out. He just walked slowly, almost carefully, as if the room itself might bite him.

And then he saw him.

There was no fight left in him now. He looked up when Kunikida approached, dark eyes shadowed by weariness.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“…Kunikida?”

Kunikida’s breath caught.

He hadn't expected to be recognised so quickly. He hadn’t expected him to look quite this thin.

“Yes,” he said softly, stepping into the full light. “It’s me.”

Akutagawa blinked, not quite registering. His back was straight despite his state, still trying to keep some dignity, even here. “You’re- You’re actually here.”

“I am.”

A moment passed. Kunikida stayed a few paces away, unsure whether to move closer.

“I saw him just now,” he said quietly. “Bram.”

Akutagawa’s expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes flickered. “You followed him?”

Kunikida gave a faint nod.

“I was disguised,” he added. “He didn’t see me.”

Akutagawa let out a breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Disguised.”

Kunikida didn’t elaborate. There was too much shame in that part of the story.

“I didn’t know they still had you down here,” he said instead.

“I figured,” Akutagawa murmured. “They don’t come often anymore. Only when they’re hungry.”

His voice was thin, almost clinical. Detached from his own suffering. Kunikida didn’t know whether that made it better or worse.

He stepped closer.

Akutagawa didn’t flinch, but his eyes tracked the movement.

“…We’ve been looking for you,” Kunikida said.

There was a pause.

“No one said anything,” Akutagawa replied, not accusing, just stating it. His voice was flatter now. “I assumed I was... forgettable.”

“You’re not.”

Kunikida meant it more strongly than it came out.

Akutagawa glanced at him, but said nothing.

“I didn’t think I’d find you like this,” Kunikida admitted. “When we first heard something might be in the forest… we thought it was Bram. They didn’t realize…” He trailed off, eyes flicking to the bindings. “...you’d been here too. But I had a hunch.”

Akutagawa’s gaze fell to the stone floor between them. “Neither did I.”

Silence settled again. Somewhere behind the walls, water dripped in a slow rhythm. The candles popped softly.

“They took me from the edge of the city,” Akutagawa said at last. His voice was rougher now. “I was tracking something for Mori. One of the maidens caught me. I thought I could fight her off. Then the others came.”

He paused.

Kunikida listened in silence.

“They brought me here. Drained me. Fed from me until I couldn’t move. Sometimes I’d wake up just long enough to feel it.” He flexed his fingers absently, the chain clinking. “Eventually, I stopped trying to keep track.”

A tightness curled in Kunikida’s chest. He’d known Akutagawa was tough, obsessive, even cold. But this version of him, quiet, worn down, too exhausted to keep up the walls,.felt like a different person.

It didn't feel right to witness.

“They could’ve killed you,” Kunikida said quietly.

Akutagawa gave a faint shrug. “Maybe they meant to. Maybe they just… forgot.”

“No one forgot you,” Kunikida said.

That was a lie. He hadn’t thought of Akutagawa much at all, not until Chuuya had stormed in, yelling. But now, standing in front of him like this, the weight of that mistake was unbearable.

Akutagawa looked up again, a question in his eyes. “Why are you here, really?”

Kunikida hesitated.

He thought of the forest. The disguise. The lies.

He thought of Bram standing with bloodied gloves, staring at a crucifix like it might kill him and wanting it to.

“I came to find Bram,” he admitted. “But I did kind of expect to find you here. Now…” He exhaled, jaw tense. “Now I don’t care about Bram.”

Akutagawa tilted his head slightly. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for pity.”

A pause.

“…He was touching the crucifix,” Akutagawa murmured, eyes slipping down to his chest. The chain glinted faintly in the candlelight.

“I saw,” Kunikida said.

“He does it a lot,” Akutagawa added, voice dipping low. “I’ve seen him come down here alone. When he thinks I’m asleep. He just… kneels. Looks at it. Sometimes he touches it until his skin burns and flakes off. Once, I think he cried.”

Kunikida was silent.

“I don’t understand why,” Akutagawa said finally. “It’s like he wants it to kill him.”

Kunikida swallowed hard.

Maybe he did.

“I’ll get you out,” Kunikida said quietly.

Akutagawa looked up again.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Kunikida added. “But I am going to get you out.”

There was no fanfare in the way he said it. No righteous intensity. Just a quiet promise, made between flickering candles and heavy stone.

Akutagawa didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. He just said:

“…Alright.”

And for the first time since entering that crypt, Kunikida felt a path form in his mind. A way forward.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

But now, it was personal.

--

Bram walked through it as if in a trance, hands clasped behind his back, gliding past portraits so dust swept their faces looked like ghosts midfade. The chandeliers above him creaked softly, stirred by the draft that always haunted the west wing, the one that whispered things to him when he passed through too slowly.

He liked that part. He liked that the castle still whispered, even when no one else did.

It felt... loyal.

He stopped in front of a door that no longer had a handle. There was a mark on the wood, long and scorched, from something that had tried to get in once and hadn’t come back out. He stared at it for a long time, eyes unfocused.

Then, as if stirred by a sudden breeze of thought, he smiled.

Not fully. Not like he used to. Just a small, private lift of the mouth, not for anyone else, but for the irony of it all.

That someone had come back for him.

Not with swords. Not with fire. Not with chains or scripture. But with costume and ink, with a notebook hidden in a bodice, and a voice an octave too high.

He’d known instantly. The moment Florence curtsied in the candlelight, too stiff in the shoulders, too precise in her phrasing, he’d known. The illusion had been… charming, in its own way.

And so very Kunikida.

The thought almost made him laugh, though laughter wasn’t something he wore easily anymore. Instead, he closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the dark archway beyond, as if sensing something just out of reach.

Kunikida. The man of inkstained ideals, of unwavering plans and cleanlined morals. Dressed up as a woman.

Bram had always wondered what it would take to make someone like that bend. What would make the righteous scribbler dress in silk and lies just to reach someone like him?

A ghost. A fugitive. A thing that drank from the necks of men.

He resumed walking, the tips of his fingers brushing the wall as he moved. The stones were cold. The castle did not warm itself for its master. It never had.

But the thought stayed with him.

That Kunikida had come here, knowingly. That he had wrapped himself in another name, just to pass unnoticed. That he had stepped foot in the one place even the birds avoided, crossed the rotted woods, and bowed before him in the guise of a stranger. The meticulousness of it. The quiet desperation of it.

It was almost theatrical.

And Bram, for all his gloom, was not so far gone that he couldn’t find it amusing.

What lengths you go to, he thought. To reach the monster who left you behind.

He turned into one of the gallery halls, boots soft on the worn carpet. Above him, cracked stained glass spilled faded reds and greens onto the floor like dried blood and moss. The light painted his pale skin in strange hues, like something out of a dream where no one could quite remember the original colors.

Do you think I’ll come willingly? he mused. Or are you here just to watch me rot a little slower?

He didn’t mind being watched, not by Kunikida. The others had either feared or pitied him, but Kunikida had looked at him, really looked, even before all this began. And Bram had watched him in return. He remembered it clearly: that slow glance of consideration when he’d first met the Agency. Everyone else had seen the curse.

Kunikida had looked for the logic in it.

And now here he was, in heels, with a ribbon around his throat, pretending to be a woman who’d been dead for centuries.

It was flattering, in a strange way.

Touching, even.

He paused again, this time before the large window overlooking the courtyard. From here, he could see the line where the forest turned black, where no stars fell and no wind touched the trees. That was where Kunikida had come from. That was the threshold he’d crossed.

Bram’s fingers tapped absently against the glass.

What will you do next, Florence?

He wondered if the man beneath the disguise still believed this was a mission. Or if it had already become something more. A test. A plea. A final appeal to the part of Bram that hadn’t entirely drowned in blood and exile.

Because he hadn't thrown him out.

Hadn’t called his bluff. Hadn’t dragged him to the gates and told the maidens to devour him whole.

No, he'd let the silly farce continue.

Because he wanted to see it play out.

He wanted to see how far Kunikida would go. How much of his pride he would trade for something as foolish as hope. How much of his doctrine would remain once Bram finally asked-

"What are you here to save?"

Was it Akutagawa?

The Agency?

Or was it Bram himself?

His fingers stopped tapping.

A thought surfaced then, sudden and ugly.

Do you really think you can redeem me, Kunikida Doppo?

And worse still: do I want you to try?

He turned from the window and began to descend the main stairs again, this time slower. Each step creaked, a tired sound that echoed like old ribs shifting beneath a coffin lid.

He did not know what he wanted.

But he knew he would not stop Kunikida from finding out.

Chapter Text

His gloves were gone. His hands were raw, the skin torn and half healed in crooked lines where the fire had kissed him hours ago. The burns stung faintly beneath the moonlight that spilled across the cracked window.

The air inside the castle was ancient, soaked with incense and dust, perfume and decay. 

Then, faintly, from below: a hinge crying out. A door opening where no living hand should tread. Two heartbeats: one frantic, one weak.

He smiled, slow, quiet, unbelieving.

“So,” he murmured to no one. “You stayed after all.”

The echo of his own voice filled the empty hall. There was neither scorn nor tenderness in it, only curiosity. He turned from the window, descending the stairs. His boots whispered against the stone, like the dragging of wings.

---

The dungeon was damp, narrow, breathing with the sound of dripping water. Every lock he touched groaned under Kunikida’s trembling fingers; his hands were bleeding, the cuts shallow but constant from forcing iron that had forgotten how to move.

The first lock broke. Then the second. And on the table at the far end, not hidden, nor guarded, lay a small iron key, dull with age.

He had paused when he’d seen it, throat tight. It made no sense. He had searched this castle for hours; this key could’ve been anywhere.

So why here, now, laid out like an offering?

He didn’t have time to think about it.

The last lock clicked, and the chain fell open. Akutagawa collapsed forward, coughing weakly as Kunikida caught him by the shoulders. His wrists were ringed with bruises, eyes dark but still burning with that old defiance.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he rasped.

“I wasn’t about to leave you here.”

Akutagawa’s mouth twitched, something between annoyance and gratitude. “You’re a fool.”

“Probably.”

Kunikida slipped an arm under his, helping him up. He was lighter than he should’ve been, bones and skin, cold like ice.

They moved through the corridor in silence, their shadows flickering in the torchlight. The walls seemed to breathe with them. Every door they passed had been unlocked already. It felt wrong. Too easy.

Then, just as they reached the outer gate, Akutagawa stopped.

“…Wait,” he whispered. “He’s letting us go.”

Kunikida froze. “What?”

“The key. The doors. He wants us to leave.”

And as if summoned by the thought, a low voice drifted from the hall behind them:

“Clever child.”

Bram stood at the top of the stairs, halfshrouded in light, eyes dim and unreadable. He looked almost human, except for how still he wss.

Kunikida felt his stomach drop.

“You left it there,” he said, his voice steady but tight.

“I did.” Bram’s tone was almost gentle. “You have a habit of knocking on doors you shouldn’t open. I thought I’d spare you the trouble this time.”

The faintest smile tugged at his mouth, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Go on, take him. That was always the plan, wasn’t it?”

Kunikida’s breath caught. “The plan?”

“To draw you here,” Bram said simply. “You, specifically. I knew the Agency would send someone, but not her. Not Florence.”

The name struck him like ice.

Then Bram’s lips parted in realization, and the silence broke into a sound that wasn’t quite laughter, quiet, low, like the sound of something long dead remembering joy.

“…Of course,” he said softly. “Not her. You.”

Kunikida felt something sharp twist in his chest. “You knew it was me all along.”

“Oh, I knew,” Bram said. “Her shadow wears your walk. Your voice. Your impossible faith.” He descended a step, the hem of his coat trailing faintly against the stone. “Tell me, did you think disguising yourself in her name would fool the desperate?”

Kunikida said nothing. His hands clenched around the lantern handle until it shook.

“Go,” Bram said to Akutagawa, his voice flat again. “The exit is open. You won’t be followed.”

Akutagawa hesitated, looking between them. “You’ll die if you stay.”

Kunikida’s jaw tightened. “Go.”

For once, Akutagawa didn’t argue. He vanished into the mist, steps fading beyond the gate.

Then, only two heartbeats remained. Perhaps only one.

---

Bram descended the last few stairs. His movements were slow, deliberate.

“So,” he said quietly. “You came all this way to save me.”

“I came to stop you,” Kunikida corrected.

Bram’s eyes gleamed faintly, like wine catching light. “And yet you freed my prisoner. You walked willingly into my hall. You let the night close behind you. That doesn’t sound like a man here to end anything.”

Kunikida swallowed hard. “Maybe I wanted to understand what you became.”

“Understand?” Bram echoed. He smiled, a hollow, exhausted thing. “You wish to name what cannot be spoken.”

He turned his hand over, watching the faint tremor of his own fingers. The veins beneath his skin pulsed darkly. “Do you know what hunger does when it lasts too long?”

Kunikida said nothing.

“It starts to think,” Bram whispered. “It learns to reason. It becomes curious. About the shape of pain. The color of faith. The taste of…” He stopped himself, lips curving faintly. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Try me,” Kunikida said.

Bram’s gaze lifted: slow, assessing, and for a moment he looked less like a monster and more like a deer in headlights.

Bram’s gaze flickered to Kunikida’s throat. The pulse there moved like light through glass, fragile, insistent.

He took a step closer, and the air seemed to tighten, steeped in candle smoke and the faint iron scent of blood long dried into the stones.

“If I ask for blood,” he murmured, “would you give it to me?”

Kunikida’s pulse jumped. “If it will stop you from killing anyone else,” he said, his voice low but steady, “then yes.”

For a moment, Bram only looked at him — as if memorizing the shape of that answer. The faint light drew across his cheekbones, across the raw, burned skin of his hands. Slowly, he reached out and brushed his fingers along Kunikida’s collar. His touch was hesitant, almost reverent, like a man tracing the memory of something he had lost.

“You don’t understand what that means,” Bram whispered. “Once taken, it cannot be undone.”

“Then take it,” Kunikida breathed.

The restraint in Bram’s expression cracked, a silent tremor. He leaned in until his breath touched Kunikida’s skin, cool and trembling. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then, softly:

"This is necessary. Forgive me."

—and fangs broke skin.

The pain was small, a bright spark swallowed by warmth. His lips pressed against Kunikida’s neck, too long, too slow, the draw deep and uneven as if he couldn’t decide whether to feed or to worship. A shudder ran through him; his fingers slid to the back of Kunikida’s neck, steadying him, pulling him infinitely closer.

Kunikida gasped. His hands caught Bram’s coat, meaning to push him away, really; but the world had gone heavy, muffled, thick with heat and the rhythm of his own pulse being swallowed. The sound of it filled the silence, heartbeat against breath, mortal against immortal.

When Bram pulled back, he lingered. His mouth was red, his breath unsteady. The space between them was narrow enough that Kunikida could feel the faint tremor in him.

Bram’s eyes lifted. They were dark, wet, almost dazed. 

Kunikida’s breath hitched. “Satisfied?” he managed, his voice a rasp.

Bram looked at him as though the word satisfied were foreign. His gaze fell to the blood on his lips. “No,” he said at last. “But it isn’t hunger that remains.”

His hand rose again, slow, unsure — and brushed the edge of Kunikida’s jaw, leaving a faint smear of red. “Your faith in monsters will ruin you.”

“Then I’ll be ruined for something worthwhile.”

For a long time, neither moved. The candle guttered, and the shadows swayed, painting both of them in bruised gold and crimson; the martyr and the thing that damned him.

“Why?” Kunikida whispered. His voice was hoarse, shaking. “Why let him go? Why me?”

“Because you came,” Bram said softly. “Because you kept coming, even when you should’ve run.”

He stepped away, but his hand lingered at Kunikida’s shoulder. “You’ll stay,” he said, not a command, but a weary statement. “You have nowhere else to go tonight. The Agency will not take you back. They’ll smell the blood of filth on you before you speak.”

Kunikida swallowed, dizzy, the room tilting around him. “You think I’d join you.”

“I think,” The vampire leans closer. “that you already have.”

---

The candlelight shuddered in the draft, the walls breathing again. Somewhere outside, a wolf howled, long, distant, lonely.

Kunikida said nothing. He could feel his pulse beneath his hand, weaker, slower, and Bram’s gaze fixed on it; not with hunger now, but with something close to pity.

“I’ll burn this place one day,” Kunikida muttered.

Bram smiled faintly. “Then I’ll burn with it.”

A silence stretched between them, not empty, but full, strange, heavy.

Kunikida turned toward the doorway, toward the dark stair where Akutagawa had vanished. He could still hear, faintly, the sound of the gates closing.

He looked back once. Bram was standing where he had left him, his face unreadable, a faint tremor in his hands.

“You could have killed me,” Kunikida said.

“I could have,” Bram agreed. “But you came too far to die now, haven't you?”

He paused, eyes catching the fading candlelight. “Stay until morning. Then decide whether you’ll still pretend you have a home to return to.”

And Kunikida, bleeding, trembling, and dazed, realized he wasn’t sure he could.