The Vanguard Command Centre was a bastion of cold efficiency in the Federation's heart—all smoked glass, kinetic data streams, and disciplined silence. For Commander Rheon Vale, it was the only environment he trusted. Chaos could not thrive where order was absolute.
But the chaos of the last few hours defied containment.
Rheon stood before the holographic projection table, analysing the synchronised footage of the Nosferis lab breach. The videos looped: Lyra Kain—no, the Nosferis—moving with impossible speed, shattering restraints, and the moment his own psychic dampeners had groaned under the seductive, crushing weight of the Bloodlink.
"Run the combat loop again, three-second delay," Rheon commanded the AI, his voice betraying none of the turmoil coiling in his gut.
The footage played: the crimson flash, the precise strike against the enforcer's armour, the paralysing psychic wave that overwhelmed Gamma 5. And then, the close quarters contact with him.
Rheon watched his own heavily armoured form slam against the wall, watched Lyra's eyes—the glowing, terrible crimson—lock onto his. Even viewing the recording, he felt the phantom imprint of her presence: the strange, ancient confidence, the heat of her body, and the absolute, terrifying promise in her whisper.
You will choose who you serve.
"Stop the feed," Rheon ordered abruptly.
He dismissed the technical analysis on the screen. The metrics were irrelevant. She was too fast for their kinetics, too strong for their dampeners, and her biological regeneration was a tactical nightmare. What bothered Rheon was the unquantifiable factor: the mental breach.
His neural filters were the best the Federation could engineer, designed to repel emotional manipulation and psychic assault. Yet, in that single moment of contact, the creature had planted something dark and mesmerising in his mind. It was not a command, but an intense, unnerving desire—an obsession to possess or be possessed. It was the feeling of being chosen.
Dracula's Aether Fragment, he recalled Seraph Morn's frantic report. A charismatic, manipulative consciousness. Rheon had only wanted to capture a threat; now, he felt like he was stalking his own fate.
The door hiss interrupted his internal conflict. General Korr Vance entered the command room, his uniform crisp and severe, his face a mask of authoritarian impatience. Vance was the military head of the entire Nosferis initiative, and he saw the new vampire not as a failure, but as an imminent weapon.
"Commander Vale. The reports are… inadequate," Vance stated, his gaze hard. "You let our most valuable asset slip into the sub levels."
"Sir, the subject's speed and psychic resistance exceeded all predicted variables," Rheon responded, snapping a crisp salute. "The use of lethal force was delayed per Section B, resulting in an optimal outcome: the subject is intact and mobile."
Vance sneered, a fleeting, cruel expression. "The optimal outcome is capture. Dr Morn requires her intact for the next phase of implantation—the full cognitive merge. We need the Bloodline, Commander, not a corpse." He stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "We have competitors, Vale. The Sanguis cults are already stirring. The emergence of a true vampire prime is a theological event for them. Find her before they do."
The Sanguis Order—ancient blood worshippers of the original Dracula, driven underground by the Federation centuries ago.
"We have activated the city-wide thermal grid, General. Her unique heat signature is being isolated. She cannot hide for long."
Vance's expression softened, morphing into a calculated appreciation. "I have faith in your discipline, Commander. Bring her back. Do not damage the merchandise. And Commander… if she attempts any more of that seduction… remember your duty. She is a weapon. Nothing more."
"Understood, General."
Rheon watched Vance depart. A weapon. Nothing more. The rational, disciplined part of Rheon's mind agreed. But the raw, animal instinct the Bloodlink had awakened screamed a different, far more dangerous truth.
Rheon mobilised. His team consisted of two Vanguard units, equipped with specialised sonic nets and neurological suppression rounds. But Rheon knew containment was a lie. This was a chase, his alone to finish.
He rode the mag lift down through the sterile Upper Sectors, descending into the dense, chaotic Cyber Ghettos that fed the Sprawl. The air grew thicker, neon signs pulsed with desperate, illegal energy, and the stench of corruption became overwhelming.
His Vanguard armour's internal sensors were tuned to the specific Crimson Bio Fluid signature—a peculiar blend of ancient, unknown energy (the Aether Fragment) and cutting-edge nanotech. The trail was faint, but undeniable.
"Energy trace spiked here, Commander," reported Unit Gamma 9 over the comms, pointing toward a cramped, illegal bar called The Black Market Pulse. "A severe localised spike in residual biological energy, sir. Feeding confirmed."
Rheon analysed the data. The energy spike suggested a close, prolonged contact, confirming the transfer of life force. Yet, there were no civilian casualties reported.
"Non-lethal feeding," Rheon muttered, the information twisting the knot of anxiety in his chest. "She controlled the Thirst. She exhibits frightening control."
Or the ancient consciousness is teaching her restraint, a chilling inner voice supplied.
Rheon pushed his psychological dampeners to maximum. He was not going to be another mind slave.
They continued the methodical sweep, Rheon's augmented vision cutting through the urban grime. He followed the fading trail, his movements precise and relentless, until the signal dwindled, leading them into a quadrant of truly abandoned structures.
He stopped beneath the hulk of the derelict corporate spire—a towering metal carcass twisted with layers of forgotten infrastructure. The residual energy signal was strongest here, pointing directly upward.
"She's in the structure," Rheon confirmed. "Gamma 9, Gamma 10. Hold position at the base. Maintain a perimeter of fifty meters. Do not engage. I repeat: do not engage. I will perform the ascent and initial sweep."
"Commander, that's against protocol," Gamma 9 protested.
"Protocol has failed twice today," Rheon snapped. "Her Bloodlink can turn your armour against me. Maintain position. If you hear a Code Delta, sterilise the entire area. Understood?"
"Understood, Commander."
Rheon engaged the micro magnets in his boots and began the climb, scaling the twisted facade of the spire like a spider of chrome and steel. His methodical movements were a study in focused rage and cold determination.
As he reached the structural weak point—the access vent she had destroyed—he saw the microscopic traces of nanite residue mixed with crystallised blood. The Aether Trace was palpable here, a faint, metallic hum that his armour's sensors confirmed. The ancient essence, bonded with cutting-edge technology. She was a synthesis of two terrors.
Rheon paused outside the shattered server room. He deactivated the noise suppression on his armour, letting the deep, absolute silence of the abandoned structure wash over him.
He was the hunter. But as he prepared his plasma cutter to slice through the final, locking seal, the air grew thick again. It wasn't the smell of blood this time. It was the crushing weight of another's absolute awareness.
Lyra knew he was here. She could sense him.
Rheon took a deep breath, the filtered air tasting of metallic discipline. He reached for the release trigger of the plasma cutter.
This is no longer a mission, Rheon admitted to the cold, sterile logic of his armour. This is personal.
He was standing outside the lair of a monster he was dangerously, irresistibly drawn to.
He sliced the heavy steel door, the bright arc of energy illuminating his hardened, conflicted face. The time for stalking was over. It was time for the confrontation.