The city of Nova Lux glittered like a constellation fallen to earth, its spires of glass and chrome pulsing with holographic light. Hovercars wove through the night sky, their engines humming a symphony of progress, while far below, the streets thrummed with humanity's restless ambition. It was the year 2045, and the world teetered on the edge of utopia—or oblivion. Michael Sunna, ancient beyond reckoning, cared for neither. At three thousand years old, the leader of the Sunna Clan had seen empires rise and fall, gods worshipped and forgotten. The modern age, with its AI oracles and fusion reactors, was just another fleeting chapter in his endless existence. And it bored him.
He stood on the penthouse balcony of the Ebon Tower, a sleek monolith he'd claimed as the clan's stronghold, hidden in plain sight among Nova Lux's elite. His crimson eyes, sharp as bloodied knives, traced the city's glow, unmoved by its brilliance. His long white hair, tied in a loose braid, caught the wind, and his black coat—tailored to perfection yet ancient in its cut—flapped softly. Michael's face was a mask of ageless beauty: sharp cheekbones, a jaw like carved marble, and a presence that made the air feel heavy. He was a vampire, a predator woven into humanity's shadows, his Sunna Clan a secret dynasty that pulled strings in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
"My lord," came a voice, smooth and cautious. Seraphine, his second, stepped onto the balcony, her tailored suit a stark contrast to her ageless grace. Her dark eyes flickered with the same hunger that marked all their kind, though hers was tempered by loyalty. "The council reports unrest. The werewolf packs grow bold in the northern territories, and whispers of a human scientist probing our existence have surfaced."
Michael's lips curled into a faint, dismissive smile. "Let the wolves snarl. Let the humans play at discovery. They are ants, Seraphine, scurrying before a storm they cannot see." He turned to her, his voice a low, resonant drawl that carried centuries of weariness. "I have tasted every intrigue this world offers—blood, power, even love. They are all ash in my mouth."
Seraphine's brow furrowed, but she held her tongue. She knew Michael's moods, his ennui that could turn to wrath in an instant. The Sunna Clan, thousands strong, thrived under his rule, their influence embedded in governments, corporations, and the underworld. Yet Michael's heart—if it could still be called that—had grown cold. He had outlived his enemies, his lovers, even his purpose.
"I will sleep," he declared, his words cutting through the hum of the city. "For one hundred years, I will withdraw from this tedious world. Let it churn in my absence. When I wake, perhaps it will offer something… new."
Seraphine's eyes widened, but she bowed her head. "A century, my lord? The clan—what if the wolves or humans—"
"You will lead in my stead," he interrupted, stepping closer. His presence was a weight, commanding obedience. "The Sunna Clan is my blood, my will. Protect it. Crush any who threaten us. And when the hundred years have passed, you will wake me. I expect a world worth returning to."
She knelt, pressing a fist to her chest. "As you command, Lord Sunna."
Michael turned back to the city, its lights a mockery of the stars he'd once known in a darker, wilder age. Below, in the Ebon Tower's hidden crypts, a sarcophagus awaited—crafted from obsidian and laced with nanotechnology, a blend of ancient vampiric rites and modern science to sustain his slumber. He descended, the clan gathering in silence, their eyes gleaming with reverence and fear. As the sarcophagus sealed around him, Michael's last thought was not of the world he left, but of the one he might find—a world, perhaps, worthy of his hunger.