The hotel room door was silently pushed open, and the figure of the vampire, Glanwhite, glided into the room like a shadow.
As soon as he turned around, he saw a magic wand aimed at his heart, and Glanwhite immediately raised his hands.
"It's me, Serra."
"Remember to knock next time," Abigail said coldly, putting away the magic wand.
"There was a response from that side."
Glanwhite's voice was deep, carrying a barely detectable malice:
"Ms. Wrightford has arranged to meet us tomorrow night at ten on the Watergate Building's top floor."
Abigail returned to the chair by the window and sat down, sipping water nonchalantly, showing no sign of relaxation in her posture.
"Understood." She said, "On a first visit, didn't Mr. Bloren have us bring any gifts? At least a handwritten letter of introduction?"
"No need." Glanwhite replied, "Mr. Bloren has already reached an agreement with them, we just need to show up."
Abigail's expression shifted slightly, but she simply nodded lightly and said nothing more.
A brief silence hung in the room. Glanwhite did not leave; instead, he took a step forward, exuding a faint scent of cologne mixed with some cold aura.
"There's still plenty of time before tomorrow night."
He suggested, "The bar downstairs has a 'Blood Twilight' that's supposedly quite good. Care for a drink? You've been cooped up at your New York base for too long, haven't you?"
Abigail shook her head, "No need, I'd like to rest early. Conserve energy, prepare for tomorrow's meeting."
"Don't be so tense, girl."
Glanwhite moved a little closer, his tone relaxing even more, coaxing:
"Just one drink won't delay business. Besides... we might have a chat. Like... didn't you ask me several times how Carrel finally died?"
Abigail abruptly turned her head, her gaze stabbing sharply at Glanwhite, but the vampire merely leaned forward slightly, smiling at her.
The seemingly gentle and considerate smile carried an air of inevitability.
A fleeting struggle and shadow passed over Abigail's face, then transformed into a calm mixed with hesitation and compromise.
"...Alright." She slowly stood up, her voice devoid of emotion, "Just one drink."
Glanwhite flashed a triumphant smile, gracefully gesturing in invitation.
Abigail lowered her eyes and walked out of the room first.
...
The bass shook the air, multicolored lights cut through the pervasive smoke, and the dancing crowd in the dim lighting were like shifting silhouettes, making intoxicated noises.
The lively bar atmosphere utterly contrasted with the chilly night outside, filled with a certain dangerous sense of abandon.
Glanwhite, holding two deep-red "Blood Twilight" drinks, smoothly navigated through the crowded throng.
As he set down the glasses, his fingers quickly and imperceptibly flicked, dropping a small pinch of powder into one of the drinks, which instantly dissolved, creating tiny bubbles.
Glanwhite picked up the other drink, smiling: "Drink up! You've been so tense, it's exhausting just watching you!"
"To... new beginnings?" He raised his voice to be heard over the music, a false smile on his lips.
Abigail accepted the drink, glanced at the vampire but did not drink immediately.
Glanwhite understood, leaning closer to Abigail, mentioning the past she had forgotten:
"I took Carrel to Hogwarts, intending to assist your operation..."
The bygone events were nothing worth concealing in Glanwhite's opinion; he even recounted his embarrassing capture by Dumbledore.
"We parted ways after that, Carrel was taken back to Hogwarts by Dumbledore, and I never saw him again."
"The next time I heard about him was when Byrd and you both failed in your actions, Carrel was captured by the Ministry of Magic's Auror, presumably sentenced."
"But not long after, news of his death emerged—Dumbledore told the Ministry, but it seemed no one saw the boy's body..."
As the past was recounted, sorrow and regret gathered in Abigail's eyes, and she took a long drink.
Glanwhite, having talked himself dry, couldn't help but show a satisfied smile when he saw this.
In less than five minutes, the woman beside him began to wobble, her gaze unfocused, her limbs weak.
"I... I don't feel well..."
Abigail tried to hold onto the bar to stand, but found herself too weak.
Glanwhite caught her slipping body in time, his arm cold and strong.
"Serra, you seem drunk; I'll take you back to your room to rest."
The man's voice seemed to carry tender affection.
Abigail weakly struggled for a moment, then closed her eyes, her arms hanging powerless.
Glanwhite easily lifted the unconscious Abigail into his arms, her long hair falling, tracing a swirling arc in the psychedelic lights.
He moved through the dancing crowd with a blank expression, heading toward the bar exit.
Others were not oblivious to this scene.
Two drunk men leaning against the bar noticed, exchanged a knowing glance, and let out a cheeky whistle.
Glanwhite squinted and smiled, carrying her out of the bar.
He didn't head to the hotel upstairs but instead took an elevator to the first floor.
Pushing open the heavy soundproof door, the street was nearly empty, only two streetlights were still flickering, and everywhere was pitch black.
The night wind howled; opposite, a completely black van was quietly parked, its body unmarked, windows darkly tinted, like a black giant dog hibernating in the shadows.
Glanwhite carried Abigail, walking straight toward the van.
As he approached, the van's rear door slid open silently, two bodyguards jumped out first, cautiously scanning the surroundings.
Glanwhite stepped into the cargo area with Abigail, the door closing quietly behind him.
The compartment reeked of disinfectant and a metallic chill, and as the door closed, side lighting also flickered on.
A man in a gray uniform, compact and lean, sat on a long bench to the side, glanced at the unconscious woman, and asked:
"Is this Bloren's transaction item?"
"That's right."
Glanwhite casually placed Abigail on a corner metal chair, rubbing his wrist.
Turning around, he emphasized, "Don't let the number deceive you; this is top-quality merchandise."
The uniformed man's face remained expressionless, "Oh?"
With just a single syllable, he managed to convey complete skepticism and a lack of courteous inquiry.