The Hunt Begins

The city sprawled before Ethan Calloway like a living bruise—dark, pulsing, and tender to the touch. Rain streaked through the night, smearing the neon glow of bar signs and streetlights into a kaleidoscope of blues and reds that reflected off the wet asphalt. It was the kind of night that clung to your skin, heavy with secrets. Ethan pulled his trench coat tighter around his lean frame, the collar brushing against the stubble that had crept across his jaw over the past sleepless week. His hazel eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the alley ahead, where yellow police tape fluttered like a wounded bird against the wind.

Another body. Another headline. The fourth in two weeks, and the city was starting to choke on its own fear. Ethan's boots splashed through a puddle as he ducked under the tape, ignoring the rookie cop's half-hearted protest. "Press," he muttered, flashing his badge from The Sentinel. The kid—barely out of the academy, with a face still soft around the edges—shrugged and turned back to his post. Ethan didn't blame him. No one wanted to linger here longer than they had to.

The crime scene was a butcher's tableau. The victim, a woman in her thirties with chestnut hair fanned out like a halo, lay sprawled across the pavement. Her skin was porcelain-pale, almost luminous under the flickering streetlight, save for the twin puncture marks on her neck—clean, precise, and bloodless. Ethan crouched beside her, his notepad already in hand, scribbling details his editor would later demand he soften for the morning edition. No blood pooled beneath her. Not a drop. Just like the others.

"Cult freaks again?" he muttered to himself, his voice low and gravelly, a habit from years of talking to sources who didn't want to be heard. The police had floated that theory after the second killing—a ritualistic obsession, maybe tied to the city's underbelly of occult weirdos. But Ethan wasn't buying it. Cults left messes: symbols scratched into walls, candles, maybe a manifesto. These scenes were too clean, too deliberate. His gut twisted with the certainty that something else was at play—something that didn't fit neatly into a column inch.

"Calloway!" A sharp voice cut through the drizzle. Detective Mara Voss strode toward him, her boots clicking with purpose. She was a wiry woman in her late forties, with cropped black hair streaked with silver and eyes like chipped flint. Her navy coat flapped open, revealing the holster strapped to her side. "You're like a damn vulture, you know that?"

Ethan straightened, tucking his notepad into his pocket. "Just doing my job, Voss. Same as you."

"Yeah, well, your job's making mine harder." She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. "What's it this time? 'Vampire Stalks City Streets'? You're gonna give the mayor an aneurysm."

"Vampire's got a nice ring to it," Ethan shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Beats 'serial killer with a dental fetish.'"

Mara's glare could've peeled paint, but there was a flicker of amusement in it. They'd danced this dance before—him poking, her parrying. She sighed, glancing at the body. "No comment, Calloway. You want a quote, talk to the PR flack tomorrow."

"Off the record, then," he pressed, stepping closer. "Same MO. No blood, no witnesses. You've got nothing, do you?"

Her jaw tightened. "We're working it. That's all you get."

"Working it like you worked the last three?" The words slipped out sharper than he'd meant, and Mara's eyes narrowed.

"Watch it, Ethan. You don't know what you're stepping into."

The warning hung between them, heavy as the rain. Before he could push further, a shout from the end of the alley drew her attention—a uniform waving her over. She gave him one last hard look, then turned away. Ethan watched her go, the gears in his mind already spinning. She was rattled. Not just tired—rattled. And that meant he was onto something.

He lingered at the scene after the cops started to pack up, the drizzle soaking through his coat. The air felt wrong here, thick with a stillness that didn't match the city's usual hum. His eyes darted to the shadows pooling between the buildings, and for a moment, he swore he saw something—a flicker of movement, too fast to be human. He blinked, and it was gone. A trick of the light, maybe. Or maybe not.

Ethan shook it off and headed back to his beat-up sedan, the engine coughing to life like an old smoker. He drove through the labyrinth of streets, the city's gothic spires and crumbling brick facades looming like silent sentinels. His apartment waited on the edge of downtown—a cramped, third-floor walk-up with peeling wallpaper and a desk buried under stacks of notes. He dropped into his chair, the springs creaking under his weight, and flipped open his laptop. The screen glowed to life, illuminating the hollows of his face as he typed: Victim #4. Female, mid-30s. Puncture wounds. No blood. Police stumped.

He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. The story was there, lurking just out of reach. He could feel it—an itch under his skin, the same one that had driven him to journalism in the first place. Back when he was a kid in a nowhere town, watching his dad drown in conspiracy theories about government cover-ups, Ethan had vowed to chase the truth, not the shadows. But now, the shadows were chasing him.

His phone buzzed, jolting him upright. A text from an unknown number: Masquerade at the Vellichor Estate. Midnight. Come alone. No name, no context. Ethan's pulse quickened. The Vellichor Estate was a relic—an opulent mansion on the city's outskirts, owned by some reclusive billionaire no one ever saw. Rumors swirled about the parties there, exclusive affairs for the elite. He'd heard whispers of it in dive bars and backrooms, but an invite? That was new.

He checked the time: 10:47 PM. Just over an hour to decide. His fingers hovered over the keys, debating a reply, but the itch won out. He grabbed his coat and a cheap mask from a Halloween stash—black, simple, enough to blend in—and headed out.

The drive to the estate took him beyond the city's neon haze, into a stretch of fog-draped hills where the road narrowed and the trees leaned in like conspirators. The mansion loomed ahead, its gothic silhouette framed by wrought-iron gates that creaked open as he approached. Torches lined the driveway, their flames dancing in the mist. Cars gleamed in the lot—sleek, expensive, not a dent among them. Ethan parked his rustbucket at the edge, feeling like a stray dog at a banquet.

Inside, the air was thick with perfume and the murmur of voices. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over a sea of masked figures—men in tailored suits, women in gowns that shimmered like liquid night. Ethan adjusted his mask, his heart thudding against his ribs. He didn't belong here, and they knew it. Eyes followed him, subtle but piercing, as he wove through the crowd. A waiter offered champagne; he declined with a tight nod.

"First time?" A voice slithered into his ear, smooth and low. Ethan turned to find a man beside him—tall, pale, with hair like spun silver and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His mask was crimson, adorned with delicate filigree, and his suit clung to him like a second skin.

"Yeah," Ethan said, keeping his tone casual. "You?"

The man chuckled, a sound like glass breaking. "Oh, I'm an old hand. Name's Julian."

"Ethan." He hesitated, then added, "Nice place. Who throws these things?"

"Someone with impeccable taste," Julian replied, sipping from a flute of something too red to be wine. "You're a curious one, aren't you? I can smell it on you."

Ethan's stomach tightened, but he forced a laugh. "Occupational hazard. I'm a writer."

"Fascinating." Julian's gaze lingered, unblinking. "Well, enjoy the night, Ethan. It's full of surprises."

Before Ethan could respond, Julian melted back into the crowd, leaving a chill in his wake. The room seemed to shift—shadows stretching, voices sharpening. Ethan's hand brushed the notepad in his pocket, grounding him. He was here for answers, not games.

Then he saw her. Across the ballroom, a woman in a midnight-blue gown stood alone, her mask a cascade of feathers that framed eyes like storm clouds. She didn't move, didn't mingle—just watched him. Ethan's breath caught. He knew that stare. It was the same one he'd felt in the alley.

The hunt was on, and he was no longer sure who was the predator.