Alucard sat in his opulent study, the air thick with the scent of aged whiskey and simmering rage.
The report, delivered by a nervous lieutenant, lay crumpled on the mahogany desk. It was from a spy, a snivelling junkie he kept in the Red Light District, the festering underbelly of the city where dreams went to die and fortunes were made on misery.
"Vincent," the report read, "is becoming a god to them. A liberator. They whisper his name in the opium dens and the back alleys. Some are even wearing symbolic clothes, crimson rags adorned with the letter “V", that mark them as his followers. They want to help him take down Alucard. The gangs who don't know their place, the ones I thought I had under control, they're talking about uniting, about starting a revolt. They want to mark the fall
