The glass doors of Storm Clouds Station hissed open, letting in a sharp breath of city air as Adrian Wolfe stepped into the newsroom. The building, a sleek tower of steel and mirrored windows, shimmered under the morning sun like a polished blade. Inside, chaos danced in every direction. Phones rang in shrill chorus, fingers tapped in rapid staccato on keyboards, and a tide of reporters surged around him, chasing deadlines like bloodhounds on a scent.

  He paused near the entrance, inhaling the electric pulse of the place.

  This is it, he thought. Where stories are born… and buried.

  “Wolfe!”

  The voice cut through the buzz like a whipcrack. Adrian turned to find Carter Quinn, editor-in-chief, waving a manila folder from across the bullpen. Tall, wiry, and always looking like he’d skipped sleep for years, Carter’s sharp eyes scanned Adrian like a security scanner.

  “You’re late,” he barked. “Ten minutes and counting. First day, and you’re already testing me?”

  Adrian raised both hands in mock surrender, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Had to get breakfast. Life or death stuff, boss. Bagels don’t buy themselves.”

  Carter didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched just a little. He handed over the folder like it contained a bomb.

  “Eat faster next time. We’ve got something hotter than burnt toast. Industrial District. Three bodies. All found drained of blood.”

  Adrian blinked, his grin fading as he flipped the folder open. Sparse notes, grainy photos, and medical shorthand.

  “No suspects. No signs of struggle,” Carter continued. “Police are mum, but my source says they’re rattled. And when cops get spooked, I want ink.”

  “Drained of blood…” Adrian murmured. “Sounds like a gang ritual, or…” He trailed off, lips tightening. “Something out of a horror novel.”

  “Exactly. Get to the morgue. Talk to the examiner. Find the truth, even if it has fangs.”

  The Sidan City Morgue sat hunched beneath overpasses and flickering streetlamps forgotten, cold, and tucked away from the city’s glossy surface. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed against the tiled walls, casting everything in an ugly yellow pallor. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air, barely masking the metallic undertones of preserved death.

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  Adrian tugged his coat tighter as he stepped up to the reception desk. A young clerk barely looked up from her screen.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Adrian Wolfe. Investigative journalist here from Storm Clouds Station.” He flashed his press badge, trying not to look too eager. “I’m here to see Dr. Marian Blake. Heard she’s handling the recent cases.”

  The clerk arched a skeptical brow but pointed down the hall. “Last door on the left. Don’t expect much. She hates reporters.”

  Charming.

  Adrian found the door and knocked, then stepped inside before the nerves could catch up to him.

  Dr. Marian Blake stood over a stainless steel table, gloved hands delicately adjusting a white sheet that covered the pale outline of a body. She was in her fifties, hair graying and pulled into a no-nonsense bun. Her lab coat was pristine, her expression anything but warm.

  “You’re not police,” she said without looking up.

  “No, ma’am. Adrian Wolfe. Journalist. Just hoping to—”

  “No comment.” She peeled her gloves off with a snap and turned to him with a withering stare.

  Adrian took a breath, softened his voice. “Look, I know you’ve got rules. But three people are dead under disturbing circumstances. I’m not here to sensationalize I just want the truth. Off the record, if that helps.”

  She paused, assessing him. Something in her gaze flickered not quite sympathy, but maybe fatigue.

  “Off the record,” she said at last.

  Adrian pulled out his notebook.

  “The bodies were… wrong,” Dr. Blake began, folding her arms. “All three victims were entirely exsanguinated. Drained of blood. But not a single wound. No incisions. No puncture marks. No trauma.”

  His pen froze mid-word. “None at all? Not even internal bleeding?”

  “Nothing.” Her lips tightened. “It’s like the blood was… removed on a cellular level. Not spilled. Siphoned. And their skin—pale. Translucent, even. Like the blood wasn’t just gone. Like it was never there.”

  Adrian’s throat went dry. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

  She nodded. “Neither have I. No pathology fits it. No toxin, no disease. It’s not natural.”

  “Could it be some kind of machine? Like… suction? A pump?”

  “No abrasions. No damage to the tissue. Whatever did this, it left no trace—except the absence of life.”

  Adrian scribbled faster. “Have there been other cases? Maybe hidden in old reports?”

  Dr. Blake hesitated.

  “Not officially,” she said. “But if you dig… there are stories. Bodies found in alleyways. Urban legends. Whispers. The old-timers call it ‘The Pale One.’”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t actually think… vampire?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “I think… that something very old might be stirring in Sidan City. Something we stopped believing in.”

  Then she stepped closer. “And I think you should be careful, Mr. Wolfe. Curiosity might be your job but it’s also a noose.”

  ?

  The cold outside hit harder after the morgue. Adrian’s boots echoed against cracked pavement as he crossed a narrow industrial street toward his motorbike. The wind had picked up, tugging at his coat like invisible hands.

  Vampires. The thought was absurd. Romanticized nonsense. And yet… what else explained those details?

  He pulled out his phone, fingers quick despite the chill. A few searches later, he was digging into Sidan’s digital archives—crime reports, tabloid blurbs, old police notes buried in red tape. It was all there.

  Years of deaths. Isolated. Unexplained. Buried between political scandals and corporate coverups. And in almost every one… the blood was gone.

  Adrian’s chest tightened. Patterns were emerging. Clusters of deaths, sometimes a year apart. Sometimes a week. Always hidden in plain sight.

  He was being watched.

  That thought hit him like a slap. He turned sharply. The street was empty.

  But something was there.

  A sound a whisper of footsteps behind him. Soft. Deliberate. He scanned the shadows between flickering lamplight and empty alleyways.

  “…Get a grip,” he muttered, forcing a laugh. He climbed onto his bike and started the engine. The roar was comforting. Familiar.

  Still, the unease clung to him like fog. As he drove off into the city’s cold belly, he felt it.

  Not fear. Not paranoia.

  Presence.