The familiar scent of the Gallus City night permeates the air as Caius opens the taxi door. The handle clunks heavily under his hands. He steps out of the car - Faust follows close behind, swiping his card against the driver’s device and leaving a tip, shutting the door behind him with a noise that echoes through the streets.

The taxi drives off, headlights illuminating the pavement of the side road they’ve come down, the beans of light swaying with each bump of the car’s tires against the ground.

Faust gestures towards a smaller alley. Caius follows him down, his sneakers scuffing loudly against the old cobble of the narrow street, the kind that cars aren’t supposed to drive down but the occasional determined driver will brave anyways.

Not 30 paces from the alley’s entrance, they arrive at a taped-off section of the walkway. A flickering streetlamp throws bursts of hesitant orange light towards the area, glowing unnervingly against the bright yellow crime scene tape, a loose end twisting in the light summer night breeze. 

“I always figured crime scenes would have…” Caius says, trailing off, coming up to the roped-off area. “Police keeping watch, or something. Aren’t criminals supposed to return to the scene of the crime?”

“There’s no need.” Faust says, arms folded over his chest, observing what’s left of the scene with a furrowed brow. There’s still blood on the ground, dried crimson that’s almost black in the nighttime. He walks a few paces and comes up to an evidence marker beside a cliched chalk body outline. “They’ve taken all the evidence and photos they need already.”

“You seem well-informed.” Caius mutters. He looks around. “There’s really no-one around, though. Usually at this time of night there’s still some people walking around. Late partiers, overtime workers, things like that.”

Faust glances at him from the corner of his eye.

“You must have noticed.” He says, his tone unusually serious, grave with a hint of resignation, as though he’s holding back a sigh. “The quiet spell of unease that’s been suffocating this quarter of the city. The people aren’t stupid. The police are trying to keep public order, but the media keeps stirring up trouble, and these gory crime scenes keep popping up…”

He does sigh at this point, then kneels down to look more closely at a blood splatter beside the chalk outline. Not knowing what to do, Caius quietly follows him down, feeling his legs stretch with the unfamiliar position.

“What are you doing?” He asks, voice low. For some reason he feels like he should be whispering. Maybe it’s the serenity of the night - how, even though they’re crouched over a murder scene, the dim glow of the streetlights against the inky indigo of the hazy night sky makes him feel like he can see into the depths of space themselves, how its endless expanse suddenly makes him and Faust and this gruesome killing in their little corner of the world seem completely insignificant.

Faust makes a noise like he’s thinking. Caius waits a moment, then tries again.

“Is there some special way to find a vampire?” He says.

Faust chuckles.

“I wish,” he replies. “There’s no magic spell to track down a vampire. Hunting isn’t flashy like that - it’s mostly old-fashioned detective work.”

“Hmm,” Caius says.

“Since this character rips the throats out, we can’t even analyze the angle of the bite marks or the dental imprints.” Faust continues. “Usually we can at least tell how tall a vamp is by the angle at which they bite their victim. The throat-ripper is careful to always eliminate any evidence we can think of...”

His voice trails off. Suddenly, the alley feels huge around them, looming dark and tall in their peripheral vision. A chill sweeps through the street, skipping over the cobble.

Before Caius can blink, Faust has drawn his gun - the metal makes a quiet noise against his palm - but Caius’s reaction time isn’t quick enough, and there’s a grip around his throat, nails digging into his Adam’s apple.

“Ack-” He chokes as he’s yanked upwards and away from Faust. He feels the cuff of a sleeve brush over his shirtfront - there’s a presence at his back, live but without any kind of body heat.

Faust levels his gun at him - or, more specifically, the vampire behind him.

The vamp is dressed in a long cloak, a muted brown-grey that blends with the murky tones of the pavement. His long, silky hair is red even under the flickering yellow streetlight. His teeth gleam white in the dark with a crookedly menacing and clever smile. Caius feels the same fingernails that had previously torn into his stomach scraping against his neck.