Velvet Royal Heights

“Breaking news in Hallow Grove City. We’re receiving reports of an active situation at Mayor Gregory Hunt’s Upper West Side residence. According to police sources, Mayor Hunt has sustained multiple gunshot wounds and, following emergency medical treatment, will be transferred to IronStone Maximum Security Prison. In a shocking revelation, surveillance footage has confirmed a connection between Mayor Hunt and notorious serial killer Lutheran Greyback Basil Harding. For our viewers unfamiliar with Harding, he is one of the city’s most infamous murderers, responsible for a string of brutal killings earlier this year. This confirmed connection is just one piece of what investigators describe as a mountain of damning evidence linking the mayor to the recent wave of disappearances across our city. The HGCPD investigation has reportedly expanded to include several high-profile suspects, including potential state officials and prominent social figures. We’ll continue to provide updates as more evidence surfaces. For now...”

“Heh,” scoffed an individual, hands deep in cleaning dishes. “What did I tell you? I told you the mayor was dirty. That’s an easy fifty right there.”

“Shut up! If the mayor is as bad as they say, then why did it take so long for this to come out? If anything, they are just pinning it on the guy. Nothing but fake news.”

“…With tomorrow being Christmas Eve, many are excitedly dawning the streets even now for the festive events to come. From 52nd Street to Essex on Wayward Pine Ave, various vendors will open their doors to the special…”

“Hey, you two, stop lallygagging,” ordered the expeditor. She clapped her hands to get the attention of everyone in the kitchen to get back to work. The morning was just as busy as the evening. It didn’t matter the hour. Guests were guests, and they would be hungry all the same. “One of you, don’t care who — bring this cart up to the penthouse.”

Sucking his teeth, the individual who had nothing more than a few weeks under his belt at his new job despite being a chef that had quite an extensive amount of experience from working in Belgium to Paris to London felt he was being treated no more than what his first day in the kitchen. A joke—a hazing, if nothing else.

“Hey, and use the service elevator.”

“Pardon? She spoke of one of us. How do you figure it is me over you to do this?”

“Fine, sure, alright. Rock, paper, scissors.”

He conceded defeat with a sigh, retreating to a golden cart laden with dazzling dishes—a spread that would set mouths watering and stomachs growling in equal measure.

The Velvet Royal Heights Hotel was a testament to opulence, a 66-story monument to refined elegance. Its design breathed life into the intersection of Art déco and Art nouveau, with a regal decor that spoke of understated luxury. Gold flourishes cascaded across black and scarlet walls, while brass fixtures gleamed with an almost musical precision. Perched along the upper west side, the hotel commanded a breathtaking view of Central Park, with an offshoot of the Gallows River threading serpentine-like through the landscape below—a narrow, liquid ribbon cutting through the urban expanse.

Lucrative businesses, high-end boutiques, and five-star restaurants surrounded the hotel, where cocktails cost more than most people’s monthly rent. For the upper class, this wasn’t just a location—it was a home away from home, a sanctuary of privilege where the city’s most elite naturally congregated.

Politicians, stars, actors, rich and glitzy glamour families, and local or foreign entrepreneurs had heard of the amazing parties. The hotel flaunted a decadent ballroom hosting live performances for dancing and gathering. People highly regarded the very restaurant on the 24th floor, which had three Michelin stars, for over fifteen years.

Their service standards were remarkably high, with no hair out of place among even the most junior staff members. Such a level of excellence demanded unwavering diligence, careful attention, and genuine dedication.

To ensure guests’ comfort, the service elevator was the go-to option for accessing any floor. This elevator could only be accessed through a key card provided by upper management or by using a special passcode reserved for select staff members.

Reaching the highest floor in seconds was necessary as most of the building’s managers were located in the penthouse. Their standards were the guests’ expectations.

The penthouse itself had three floors, with a long hall tightly closed by large Gothic-style doors. To ring the bell, one pressed a single button. Patience was essential, yet soon the doors opened to receive those who rang.

As for the man who now pushed a cart, he believed this was a job for another member of the staff. A bellboy, he was not. He was a chef who desired respect, yet he understood that the nature of having the opportunity to work within these walls was a privilege for the finest ever to aspire to reach.

Taking a deep breath, he combed his hair, ensuring that his attire was appropriate.

“Right then. We have…” Before he could speak of the many dishes prepared on the cart, his skin ran cold, a sweat running down his back. The thought of him coming down with something so dangerous at such a crucial point crossed his mind. This was his time to shine. This was his time to illustrate how experienced he was, the prospect of promotion, and head chef in one of the city’s most sought-after restaurants, maybe even the world. Yet the feeling of nausea rolled within him. He had not realized it at first, but the smell of iron left him to hold pause.

Before he knew it, his sight fell to the soles of his shoes. His legs twitched, muscles spasming beyond his control. In a grotesque instant, he realized he was no longer standing but suspended—his perspective inverted, ceiling now ground, floor now sky. No sound escaped his throat. No screams, no pleas. Only silence.

“Children, we spoke of this; we eat what is on the cart first, and then we have dessert.”

Several individuals were already prying at the body. Chewing the flesh while draining the blood from the corpse to the very last drop.

“Goodness, the incubation period is always so taxing,” remarked the one holding what remained of the man’s head.

“Would you like me to punish them?” a voice inquired. A woman lingered to the side.

“My child, oh, how perfect you turned out to be…”

Vladimir Von Demir Kovamir stood as a testament to something beyond mere vampiric existence. His hand—pale as moonlight, tinged with a sickly blue, fingers elongated beyond human proportion—reached out. Sunken eyes framed pure black with crimson irises, piercing with a gaze that could flay souls.

Taller than any other natural being, he angled his body to meet the woman’s gaze, his voice a razor-edged whisper.

“No. There is no need to punish them. They are nothing more than infants of the like with which you are familiar. One does not spank a child for crying—no. But a child who knows better? That is when punishment becomes... necessary.”

“Is that so, Your Grace?”

“Yes.”

His hand caressed along the woman’s cheeks before reaching her throat. The grip was surgical, precise—bones in her spine creaking and cracking under a pressure that would shatter ordinary flesh. Vladimir was not like those he created. Most, if not all, of his children—those who he turns, exist with nothing more than sharp ears, fangs, and crimson eyes. Men, women, and children alike. Few were grotesque, but the remaining were beautiful. Yet, this was not the source of his current frustration.

“Charlotte,” he spoke, each syllable a blade of ice, “care to explain what your father has done?”

With a dismissive gesture, Vladimir lifted Charlotte by her throat, suspending her before the large screen that replayed the morning’s news. Her feet dangled, desperate for the ground.

“A-apologies, y-your grace…” Charlotte’s words emerged as fragmented gasps. “It is not my fault. You are aware of my father, moving to the beat of his own drum.”

“Aware?” Vladimir’s tone carved the room like a knife. Even those in mid-feast trembled, their primal hunger pausing at the slightest elevation of his voice.

“Your father was nothing more than a fool. A supposed ‘keeper of peace’, believing himself the omniscient hand moving pieces across a board. Not a king, not a queen—merely a pawn. A jester meant for my amusement. He failed to understand the very nature of the game. Pieces are pieces. Nothing more, nothing less. “

His words dripped with centuries of accumulated disdain, each syllable a lecture delivered to an uncomprehending child.

“I-I-I am so terribly sorry, your grace…”

“Sorry?” Vladimir’s laugh was a razor’s edge. “Apologies mean nothing. You are all nothing more than toys to me. Puppets. Some are pretty enough to be displayed, untouched but admired. Others—broken, discarded when utility expires.”

Charlotte quivered, her entire being a manifestation of terror.

“Your father dared to make a deal with a witch. Executing plans in the shadows without my permission?” Vladimir’s gaze narrowed. “And to employ but another piece… Curious, how did such a flimsy thing manage to survive an encounter with that dog only to fall. I care not if he wished to have his own pet but to go to these lengths. Now, all the city speaks. Aware of things that they should not. Slaughtering pigs and cattle does not taste as nice when they know they are in their pen to be delivered to a slaughterhouse. All because your father dared to move against the hand that feeds him? Does not he understand that this is my city?”

The pressure of Vladimir’s grip collapsed Charlotte’s ability to speak. When he released her, she fell to the floor like lead, her body already beginning its rapid, painful healing.

“Apologies... Master Vlad,” she choked. “That was not his intention, I believe. He only wished to serve you as best as he could while, of course, maintaining some safety for himself. If his life continues to breathe problems for you, allow me to remedy it personally.”

Vladimir’s response was immediate and cutting. “You? Don’t make me laugh. I do not entertain half-jokes.”

“But, Your Grace—”

“Enough.”

The single word rattled Charlotte’s bones. She froze, petrified, every molecule of her being screaming submission.

“Please forgive me,” she pleaded, “I ask that—”

“Ask? Child, you do not have the right to ask anything. Subjects ask that of their king. I am far above that of a king, and you are far beneath that of even what could even enter the court.”

Raising his fingers in the air only spurred Charlotte to lower herself as low as she could. Her head hugging the ground as she prostrated herself for forgiveness.

“Please, your grace,” she whispered, “allow me a second chance to serve you properly.”

“Child, think nothing of it. You could not kill your own father even if you tried. You fear him too much. His serves no more purpose, as I will find a new puppet to take his place.”

Vladimir’s disdain left him staring at the magnificent city below. The large glass windows had a tint that provided a clear sight while preventing the sun’s rays. The space was his domain, and he controlled everything.

His frail hand rose again, this time issuing a silent command. The vampires, who had been feeding moments ago, now rose, eyes glowing from the shadowed corners, their incubation complete. With memories and mannerisms restored, they awaited his unspoken instructions.

The first days of vampiric existence were treacherous—a period of uncontrollable hunger, where anything bleeding might become prey. And nothing was more dangerous than a starving vampire.