Blood Of The Fallen

Rain hammered the city, neon signs reflecting in puddles like fractured fire. Ten-year-old Adrian clutched the car seat, his knuckles white. The tires screeched as his father swerved down a narrow street. “Adrian! Stay down! Stay quiet!” his father shouted, eyes darting to every shadow. Panic shook his voice. Adrian didn’t fully understand, only that they were being hunted… and that they couldn’t outrun them. The car skidded into a dark alley. Without hesitation, his father yanked Adrian out and shoved him into a dumpster tucked into the corner. “Stay here. Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Adrian’s forehead. Adrian’s small fingers dug into the rusted metal edges. Outside, he could hear the snarls, claws scraping concrete. His father fought. For a moment, he was winning—blades flashing, punches striking, monsters falling. Then the mist rolled in. Thick, suffocating, like the city itself was holding its breath. Shapes moved within it, silent and impossible. A figure emerged. She radiated power—cold, commanding, terrifying. Crimson eyes pierced the fog. “Stop,” she said. Her voice was silk and steel. The monsters froze. His father froze. Even the bravest of them obeyed some invisible command. Adrian peeked through the cracks of the dumpster. He saw nothing. No father. No monsters. Just blood pooling along the bricks, neon reflections shimmering across it. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal, the reality sinking in. The person he loved… gone. And him, left alone in the dark, trembling and terrified. Years later, he would remember the weight of that night—the blood, the silence, the fear. He would remember the need to survive… and the need to make them pay. Because that night, Adrian Vale was no longer just a boy. He became a hunter.