In the midnight hours of Manhattan, neon lights flickered like blood-red eyes in the darkness. Inside "Velvet," an upscale bar near Wall Street, smoke swirled as the music pulsed low and intoxicating. This was paradise for night hunters, a world ordinary humans could never truly comprehend.

Alexander Knox sat in the darkest corner of the bar, his presence melting into the shadows. His Italian custom-tailored suit caught the dim light with subtle luxury, but what truly drew attention were his eyes—deep pools that transcended time, as if carrying centuries of secrets.


His fingers traced the rim of his glass, the liquid within gleaming crimson in the candlelight. To the uninitiated, it looked like ordinary red wine, but Alexander knew better—it was his lifeline, his curse.

Three hundred years. Damn.

The number echoed in his mind like a funeral dirge. Three centuries of solitude. Three centuries of shadows. Three centuries of waiting. He'd witnessed empires rise and crumble, seen technology transform from steam to silicon, yet remained trapped in this ageless, deathless prison of flesh.


The crowd ebbed and flowed around him, their heartbeats thundering in his ears. Each pulse called to him, tempted him, stoked the primal hunger lurking beneath his skin. Wall Street sharks circled each other, talking bull markets and bear runs. Fashion models flaunted their latest conquests. Trust fund kids burned through Daddy's money.

But to Alexander, they were all just walking meals.


The thought sickened him. He wasn't that kind of monster—or at least, he fought like hell not to be. Centuries of discipline had taught him control, how to bury his true nature beneath tailored suits and corporate acquisitions. His business empire wasn't just about wealth; it was his anchor to humanity.

Through business, he touched the pulse of human ingenuity and creativity. Each successful deal, every strategic victory gave him something close to feeling alive. The money meant nothing—he'd accumulated more wealth than he could spend in ten lifetimes—but the game itself tethered him to the world of the living.

Yet success was a cold bedfellow.

His wealth could buy him anything except what he truly craved—connection. Whenever he dared forge bonds with humans, reality would rear its ugly head: they would wither and die while he remained unchanged. Even if he could bear watching lovers turn to dust, how could they possibly accept what he truly was?

A commotion at the bar snapped him from his brooding.

A red-faced Wall Street trader was pawing at a young woman. She twisted away, discomfort written across her face, but the man grabbed her wrist, slurring through his rejection. The crowd around them suddenly found their drinks fascinating.

Alexander's jaw tightened.

With the slightest narrowing of his eyes, Alexander released a tendril of influence. The drunk froze mid-sentence, blinked in confusion, then wandered away toward the exit. His face went slack, as though someone had wiped his memory clean.

Mind control—one of the more useful vampire party tricks. Centuries of practice had refined his ability to nudge human thoughts, bending wills without breaking them. In boardrooms, this talent made him unstoppable, but it also tainted every interaction, keeping him forever apart.

His success rested on supernatural advantage, which hollowed every achievement. Without his powers, would he be anything special? How much of his supposed brilliance was truly earned?

As midnight stretched toward dawn, the bar emptied. Alexander stepped onto the deserted street.

New York nights belonged to his kind. Sunlight was his enemy, burning his skin and sapping his strength, but darkness was his domain. He felt the city's heartbeat, heard whispers from every alley, saw secrets mortals tried to hide.

His penthouse overlooked Central Park West, the pre-war building's classical architecture a reminder of simpler times. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, he surveyed his kingdom—Manhattan's glittering skyline spread before him like a carpet of stars. From this height, he could pretend to be the city's guardian rather than its most dangerous predator.

At the window, the eternal question haunted him: what the hell was the point of it all?

Infinite time. Boundless wealth. Supernatural power. Yet none filled the void within. He craved genuine connection—someone who could understand his isolation and accept his true nature. But did such a person exist? And even if they did, what right did he have to pull them into his darkness?

"Sir?" Marco Rossi's voice broke his reverie.

"Tomorrow's schedule is confirmed."

Marco was his first creation—a young, vibrant vampire who still found excitement in their condition. Unlike Alexander's world-weary cynicism, Marco embraced his powers with childlike enthusiasm, reveling in eternal youth without the burden of existential dread.

"Anything interesting?" Alexander asked, eyes still fixed on the skyline.

"An interview request," Marco said, swiping through his tablet. "British journalist. She's been digging into our recent acquisitions—seems particularly interested in your investment patterns."

Alexander's brow furrowed. Journalists were trouble, especially the clever ones. His empire was built on carefully guarded secrets, and any serious investigation risked exposing things better left buried.

"Her name?"

"Yvette Morris. Former Financial Times, now running some independent investigative platform. Word is she's like a dog with a bone—doesn't let go once she bites into a story."

Alexander turned, interest kindling in his eyes. A tenacious reporter—now that was intriguing. Most humans folded like cheap suits under his influence, but the truly driven ones sometimes showed surprising resilience.

"Set it up," he said. "Let's see what she's after."

Marco nodded, then hesitated. "Boss, aren't you worried she might dig up something... problematic?"

Alexander's smile was all predatory confidence. "Marco, you underestimate us. No human, no matter how clever, can uncover what we truly are. Besides," he added with a dangerous glint in his eye, "I could use some entertainment."

After Marco left, Alexander returned to his vigil at the window.

Tomorrow, he would meet this Yvette Morris. Her name echoed strangely in his mind, like a half-remembered melody. Perhaps he simply needed a challenge after decades of easy victories. Perhaps he craved the danger of discovery.

What he couldn't know was that this seemingly routine interview would shatter his carefully constructed world.

Across the city, a young woman arranged notes across her kitchen table, unaware that tomorrow's interview would drag her into a world of ancient shadows and blood-soaked secrets.

New York slumbered beneath them both, while fate's machinery clicked inexorably forward.

Alexander cast one final glance at the glittering cityscape before moving to his study. His desk overflowed with contracts and quarterly reports—paper monuments to his human success. Yet tonight, the documents might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all he cared.

His mind circled back to one name: Yvette Morris.

A truth-seeker. A question-asker. Would she be just another fleeting human connection, or something more? His existence was littered with mortals who had briefly captured his attention before fading into memory's fog.

Yet something felt different this time.

Perhaps this Yvette Morris would matter. Perhaps she would break the monotony of his endless existence. The thought both thrilled and terrified him—change always carried risk.

He'd grown comfortable in his isolation, his secrecy, his shadow-life. Any disruption to this careful balance could have catastrophic consequences.

And yet, God help him, he craved disruption.

Three centuries of the same routine had hollowed him out. He needed something—anything—to break the cycle. Maybe this reporter was exactly what he needed.

Provided, of course, she never discovered what he truly was.

Alexander uncorked a bottle of his "special reserve"—the euphemism almost made him laugh. The crimson liquid burned down his throat, satisfying the hunger while reminding him of his fundamental truth: he was a predator, an aberration, forever separate from the humanity he mimicked.

No matter what happened tomorrow, this essential fact would remain unchanged.

He could only hope Ms. Morris wouldn't dig too deeply. If she uncovered too much, he'd be forced to take measures that would benefit neither of them.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Too many humans had already paid the ultimate price for glimpsing his reality. He didn't want to add this reporter to that bloody ledger, but survival trumped sentiment every time.

In his world, survival was the only commandment that mattered.

Yet some buried part of him hoped for another outcome—a simple conversation, a professional exchange, and then a clean separation.

Clean. Simple. Safe.

But his gut told him otherwise.

In three centuries, he'd learned to trust his instincts. And right now, those instincts were screaming that tomorrow would change everything.

For better or worse? That remained to be seen.

Even New York's endless energy waned as night deepened toward dawn. Alexander retreated to his bedroom, preparing for the coming day.

He didn't need sleep as humans did, but rest rejuvenated him. Sunlight sapped his strength, so he typically entered a death-like trance from sunrise until dusk.

In his bed, his mind refused to quiet.

Yvette Morris. The name pulsed in his consciousness with inexplicable power. He tried to rationalize his fascination but came up empty.

Maybe he was just bored, desperate for novelty after decades of sameness.

Maybe he craved change, any change, to break the monotony.

Maybe centuries of isolation had left him pathetically eager for any human connection.

Whatever the reason, tomorrow promised to be anything but ordinary.

As the death-like trance claimed him, his final thought surfaced: Don't disappoint me, Ms. Morris.

Across the city, a woman stared at her ceiling, mind racing with preparations for tomorrow's interview. Excitement and dread warred within her, an inexplicable tension tightening her chest.

Fate's machinery clicked forward, drawing two souls toward a collision that would reshape both their worlds.

Neither could possibly understand what awaited them.

They only knew tomorrow held an interview.

A seemingly ordinary business interview.

Morning light slashed through the blinds of the Brooklyn café, casting tiger stripes across Yvette Morris's laptop screen. Around her, freelancers nursed overpriced lattes and office workers scrolled through phones, but her focus remained laser-sharp on the documents before her.

This hole-in-the-wall café was her war room, safely removed from Wall Street's prying eyes. Here, she could connect dots and follow threads, hunting truths buried beneath corporate doublespeak and financial sleight-of-hand.

Yvette's honey-brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her green eyes sharp behind frameless glasses. Her crisp white shirt and charcoal blazer projected professional competence, but a closer look revealed something more—a hunger for truth that burned too bright for someone barely thirty.

Her fingers danced across the keyboard, organizing months of research. What had initially seemed like unrelated acquisitions now formed a pattern she couldn't ignore.

Case one: A two-century-old Italian winery purchased for triple its market value by a shell company. The official statement cited "preservation of traditional craftsmanship"—corporate bullshit if she'd ever heard it.

Case two: A British auction house specializing in medieval artifacts, bought out for an absurd sum. The business dealt primarily in religious relics and items with occult histories.

Case three: A Swiss private bank dating back to the 1700s, once the preferred institution of European nobility, acquired with similar disregard for financial sense.

The list went on—each target centuries old, each purchase defying financial logic.

Yvette's journalistic spider-sense was screaming. No corporation threw money away like this without reason. She needed to find the connection, the thread tying these disparate purchases together.

After weeks of digging, she'd found her smoking gun: every acquisition traced back to Knox Investment Group.

The discovery sent a thrill of excitement through her, followed immediately by unease. Knox Investment Group—and its enigmatic founder Alexander Knox—operated behind a veil of secrecy that even Wall Street insiders couldn't penetrate.

Public information on Knox was practically non-existent. No interviews. Rare public appearances. Not even a confirmed birth date or educational background. The information vacuum only intensified her curiosity.

Her phone buzzed—Samantha Weber's name flashing on the screen.

"Don't tell me you're still at that coffee shop," Samantha said without preamble. "You've practically moved in there this week."

Yvette pulled out her earbuds and massaged her temples. Her eyes burned from staring at screens, but she couldn't stop now.

"Samantha, I've got something big," she whispered, hunching over her phone. "Knox Investment Group has been systematically acquiring historical businesses without regard to cost. We're talking hundreds of millions over market value."

"Maybe they're just rich," Samantha replied skeptically. "Some billionaires collect vintage cars, others collect ancient businesses."

"This isn't collecting, Sam." Yvette flipped through her notes. "There's a pattern. Every acquisition connects to specific historical periods—primarily 18th and 19th century Europe. And each business has connections to... well, let's call them unusual historical events."

Samantha went quiet. As a former investment banker, she understood the financial world's hidden currents. "You think they're hunting for something specific?"

"Exactly." Yvette nodded despite the phone call. "The question is—what? What's worth billions in overpayment?"

"So what's your next move?"

"I'm going straight to the source—Alexander Knox himself." Yvette's voice hardened with determination. "I've requested an interview through official channels. He never talks to press, but my pitch was compelling."

"Be careful, Yvette." Concern edged into Samantha's voice. "Men like Knox don't build empires by being forthcoming. He'll give you nothing he doesn't want you to have."

"That's what I'm counting on." Yvette smiled grimly. "The things people try hardest to hide are exactly what I need to find."

After hanging up, Yvette returned to her preparation. She needed questions that would showcase her research while subtly probing for weaknesses in Knox's carefully constructed facade.

A chime from her laptop interrupted her thoughts. New email—from Knox Investment Group.

Her pulse quickened as she opened the message.

"Dear Ms. Morris, Mr. Knox has agreed to your interview request. Tomorrow evening, 6 PM, at Knox Investment Group headquarters. Please arrive promptly."

She blinked in disbelief. She'd expected rejection or months of bureaucratic delays—not immediate acceptance.

The sudden success triggered both excitement and alarm. She'd gotten what she wanted—direct access to the mysterious Knox—but why had it been so easy?

Yvette threw herself into preparation. She organized her research, crafted questions designed to bypass corporate defenses, and studied psychological techniques for interviewing evasive subjects.

Yet beneath her methodical preparation lurked an odd sensation—a premonition she couldn't articulate. She tried dismissing it as pre-interview jitters, but the feeling only intensified as the day wore on.

Dusk found her back in her apartment—a modest space made personal through careful curation. Framed photographs and news clippings covered the walls, each representing a story she'd uncovered, a truth she'd exposed.

At her window, she watched New York transform into its nighttime incarnation. The city sparkled like fallen stars, but her mind remained fixed on tomorrow's challenge.

Alexander Knox. The name echoed in her thoughts as she tried to conjure an image of the man. The few photos she'd found showed a striking man who appeared to be in his thirties—handsome in a severe way, with penetrating eyes that seemed to challenge the camera itself.

But instinct told her the real man would be far more complex than any image could capture.

Her phone rang again—James Harvey. She hesitated before answering her ex's call.

"I heard you're looking into Knox Investment Group." James's voice carried an edge she hadn't heard before. "You need to back off this one, Yvette."

"We broke up months ago, James." Her voice cooled. "My work is no longer your concern."

"This isn't about us." He sounded genuinely worried. "Some stories aren't worth the risk. Trust me on this."

"I'm a journalist." Her spine stiffened. "Risk comes with the territory."

"Damn it, Yvette, listen to me!" His voice sharpened. "Some secrets get people killed. Knox isn't what he seems."

A chill ran down her spine. His warning wasn't the general concern of an ex—it was specific, targeted.

"What do you know about Knox?" she demanded.

"Just... rumors. Things that don't add up." He sounded suddenly evasive. "Be careful, that's all I'm saying."

The call ended, leaving Yvette more unsettled than before. What did James know? Why this specific warning about Knox?

She tried analyzing James's possible motives but came up short. Was he genuinely concerned? Or did he know something specific—something dangerous?

Either way, the warning only strengthened her resolve. If Knox had nothing to hide, why would anyone try to warn her off?

She returned to her notes with renewed purpose, crafting questions designed to penetrate corporate armor and preparing counters for likely evasions.

Every instinct told her tomorrow would be pivotal—a turning point in her career and perhaps her life.

As midnight passed, Yvette finally forced herself to bed. Sleep proved elusive as her mind rehearsed tomorrow's confrontation, anticipation and dread battling for dominance.

Something whispered that after tomorrow, nothing would ever be the same.

She had no idea how prophetic that feeling would prove.

Across Manhattan, Alexander Knox made his own preparations. Unlike Yvette's fact-gathering, his focused on concealment—revealing enough to satisfy curiosity without exposing anything of substance.

Two souls, two agendas, one inevitable collision.

Neither understood that their meeting would alter both their destinies forever.

Yvette finally succumbed to exhaustion near dawn, her dreams haunted by fragmented images—ancient stone walls, candlelit ceremonies, and always those eyes—dark, hungry eyes watching from shadows.

She woke unsettled yet more determined than ever. Her subconscious was clearly trying to tell her something.

Morning light flooded her bedroom. The day of reckoning had arrived.

She couldn't know that tonight she would meet someone who would transform her understanding of reality itself.

A creature who had walked through three centuries of human history.

An immortal predator hiding behind corporate success.

A truth that would shatter her perception of the possible.

For now, she remained blissfully ignorant—just a determined journalist preparing to interview a reclusive billionaire.

Simple. Straightforward. Ordinary.

Or so she believed.

Yvette dressed with careful consideration, selecting a charcoal suit that projected professionalism without sacrificing femininity. First impressions mattered, especially with someone as notoriously judgmental as Knox.

Yet beneath her methodical preparation ran a current of awareness—this was no ordinary interview.

Every journalistic instinct screamed that she stood at the threshold of something momentous.

A rabbit hole of secrets and shadows.

But damn it, she was ready.

Whatever waited in Knox's ivory tower, she would face it unflinchingly.

Truth was her mission.

Her purpose. Her calling.

As dusk gathered, Yvette gathered her materials and headed toward her appointment with destiny.

She couldn't know this appointment would extend far beyond a single evening.

That it would, in fact, last for eternity.