The thin, jittery homeless man, galvanized by the simple act of having a seemingly attentive listener, began to talk in a low, conspiratorial rush. He pulled a dirty, stoppered plastic bottle, filled with a viscous, dark-red fluid, from the inner pocket of his threadbare coat—his private inventory.
"It's a bizarre setup, brother, truly bizarre," he murmured, his eyes darting nervously toward the elegant men in dark suits who managed the operation.
"They pay cash, upfront, no questions about ID or history. But here's the kicker: they buy the bottled product, too, even if it's days old! Most donation centers only take fresh draws, but these guys? They'll buy any supply you bring, and the rate never drops below the top market price for specialized plasma. It's like they have an endless, unsatiable thirst."
He took a greedy swig from a cheap plastic water bottle. "I don't know what these suits are doing with the volume they collect. It's certainly not for the usual hospital supply, or they wouldn't be down here in a decommissioned subway line, paying off the transit cops to look the other way. The rumors are wild. Some say it's just a front for black market organ harvesting; others—the old timers—swear it's something… darker."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-silent hiss, reeking of stale whiskey and desperation.
"A few months back, a low-level Manhattan crew, some thugs looking to cut into the racket, tried to muscle in, collecting their own supply down in the abandoned F-line tunnels. They thought it was easy money. I heard they got into a scuffle with these suits' security—a real mess. The next day, every single one of those thugs was gone. Wiped clean. The street consensus is that the people backing this operation are not just criminals; they're organized, ruthless, and highly protected."
The thin man offered a nervous, philosophical shrug. "Then you have the religious nuts claiming it's for some kind of Satanic ritual, a blood-covenant for a hidden cabal. Me? I don't care. As long as the cash is real, and the price is fair, they can use it for whatever wicked thing they want."
The tall, quiet figure, Chadnorma, listened with unnatural stillness. A faint, almost imperceptible wry upturn tugged at the corner of his lips when the man mentioned the Satanic rituals.
He offered only a slow, deliberate nod, the gesture encouraging the flow of information without betraying his own intentions. The thin man, grateful for the attention, continued his boastful assessment of which nearby restaurant dumpsters offered the highest-quality midnight scraps.
Their strange companionship was abruptly interrupted. A woman, sharp and impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit—a jarring presence in the filth-encrusted station—approached them. She consulted a small electronic pad, her eyes scanning the ragged faces.
"Chadnorma?" she called out, her voice crisp and emotionless. "Your analysis is complete. It's your turn. Come with me."
Chadnorma rose silently, unfolding his great height from the dilapidated bench. He gave the thin man a brief, dismissive wave and followed the woman deeper into the oppressive darkness of the tunnel complex.
The further they walked, the clearer it became that this was no humanitarian aid operation. They passed reinforced steel doors, silent security cameras, and uniformed private guards—not transit police, but hired military veterans—who silently observed them. The air grew colder, drier, and unnervingly quiet, a manufactured environment deep underground.
The woman maintained a steady pace, holding her electronic pad in one hand and a pen in the other, tapping the plastic rhythmically against her chin as she asked the standard screening questions.
"Have you had any tattoos, piercings, or non-sterile invasive procedures within the last twelve months?"
Chadnorma's reply was a clipped, guttural "No."
She paused, then her eyes—cold and professional—met his, focusing immediately on the single, most defining feature of his exposed skin.
"The scar on your chin. It appears to be a surgical closure, exceptionally well-stitched, but recent. Please elaborate on its origin."
Instinctively, Chadnorma raised a gloved hand to the faint, yet clear, horizontal seam that ran beneath his jawline. It was a precise, half-moon incision, almost a second smile.
"An industrial accident. Happened years ago," he replied, his voice a dry, grating sound that ended with a forced cough. The subject was clearly closed.
The woman seemed satisfied with the deflection for the moment, simply noting his reaction. They passed a doorway where a team of men in clinical scrubs were diligently mopping a floor slick with a dark, sticky fluid. The woman barely glanced at the scene.
"You stated on your initial intake form that you have no immediate family or close contacts?"
"Correct," Chadnorma responded, his gaze lingering momentarily on the cleaners. "I haven't had any contact with my immediate biological family in over a decade."
The woman's mouth curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile—a shift that was predatory, not kind. "So, in the event of any unforeseen emergency or adverse reaction, there is absolutely no one we need to contact to authorize medical procedures?"
"None," Chadnorma affirmed, his patience clearly wearing thin.
"I am unable to proceed with your donation, Chadnorma," she announced, stopping abruptly before a heavily fortified metal door guarded by two silent, massive men. She began tapping a complex sequence of symbols into a console beside the door.
"What?" Chadnorma demanded, his cough returning, more forceful this time. "Why? Is there a problem? You assured me I was eligible."
She completed the entry sequence, and the heavy door hissed open, revealing a small, brightly lit clinical room beyond.
"Let me explain," she said, her tone suddenly clinical and chillingly detached. "Your blood test results exhibit a severe anomaly. You possess a phenotypic variant we have never encountered. It is, frankly, highly abnormal."
As she finished speaking, she gestured him through the doorway. The moment Chadnorma stepped across the threshold, the heavy door slammed shut behind him with a deafening metallic clang.
"What… what are you talking about?" he stammered, his eyes wide with a fear that seemed too instantaneous, too theatrical.
Before he could process the enclosed space, two figures emerged from the corners of the room: the two massive security guards who had been flanking the door. They moved with swift, practiced brutality, seizing Chadnorma's arms and pinning him with overwhelming force, driving him toward a raised, gleaming stainless steel operating table that dominated the room.
The woman in the suit now smiled fully, a cold, calculating expression. "Please, try to relax."
A fourth figure, bulky and wearing a blood-splattered leather apron over his scrubs, approached with a chilling, predatory grin, revealing his slightly extended, sharp canines. This was the "butcher."
"A high-risk sample, Chad," the butcher purred, admiring the helpless, pale man. "But a good problem for us to solve. We knew the unique composition would draw a high-risk profile, but we didn't expect to find this level of… density."
"Who are you?" Chadnorma whispered, his body visibly shaking on the table.
The butcher reached for a sinister-looking glove made of hardened leather, embedded with several massive, hollow steel needles—an industrial blood harvester. He pulled it onto his hand with a sickening shick sound.
"We are simply your collectors, Chad. And unfortunately for you…" The butcher's smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp, pupils too dark for any normal human. "…you are not going to leave this tunnel."
Chadnorma was trembling violently. The soft, terrified pleas he was murmuring began to rapidly escalate, transforming from cries of distress into an unnerving, uncontrollable cackle. It was a high-pitched, triumphant laugh—the laughter of a successfully executed joke, a beautifully sprung trap.
His entire body tensed. The fear vanished, replaced by a terrible, manic joy. As his face contorted in the manic laugh, his mouth stretched impossibly wide.
The faint scar beneath his jaw began to shudder, then, with a wet, cracking sound, the surgical seam split open, separating his lower jaw and revealing a second row of impossibly long, needle-sharp teeth beneath the first.
The sudden, monstrous metamorphosis froze the four hunters mid-motion. Their playful, predatory smiles dissolved into confusion and naked terror. They didn't immediately recognize the horror; they simply saw a man in the throes of a sudden, psychotic break.
Chadnorma wasted no time. With a speed that defied the laws of physics, he violently tore free of the two guards' grip—a flash of movement that left the men reeling and disoriented.
He slammed his body into the woman in the suit, his new, elongated jaw snapping shut on her carotid artery with a sickening crunch. A fountain of warm, coppery blood erupted, spraying across the gleaming white walls like a grotesque abstract painting.
The remaining three men—the butcher and the two guards—erupted into panic. The nearest security guard frantically clawed the pistol from his belt, aiming shakily at Chadnorma's back as the monster briefly savored his first mouthful.
BANG!
The shot pierced Chadnorma's shoulder, but the creature didn't flinch. It merely stopped feeding, abandoning the now-dead woman. It turned, its gray-blue eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying coldness that now mirrored its exposed weaponry.
The security guard emptied the clip. The bullets slammed into the monster's chest and abdomen, merely slowing its approach. Sanity fled the guard. He screamed, dropping the useless pistol, and blindly rushed the monster. Chadnorma intercepted the flailing attempt effortlessly.
His massive, scarred hand clamped around the guard's head, and with a swift, sickening twist, there was a sound like bones cracking and scraping together. The guard instantly collapsed, a boneless, twitching sack of flesh, his nervous system seemingly shattered.
The butcher—the supposed hunter—whimpered, turning to run for the exit. Chadnorma's arm blurred, snatching the terrified man by the ankle. With a grunt of inhuman force, he slammed the butcher's body against the reinforced concrete wall with a dull, pulpy thud. Dark red, thick fluid appeared instantly on the crumbling concrete.
The last survivor was scrambling frantically at the console, his fingers shaking so violently that he repeatedly hit the wrong keys, sealing his fate with his desperation. He needed to summon help, to breach the security protocol they had put in place to contain their victims.
But it was too late.
Chadnorma snatched him by the throat, hoisting him high into the air. Instead of immediately feasting, the monster looked directly into the single, silent security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. His multi-toothed mouth was still bloody, his demeanor composed now, the manic laughter replaced by a chilling, profound hatred.
"A congregation of weak, scurrying, filthy Draugr," he hissed, speaking in a low, resonant language that sounded ancient, harsh, and utterly alien. "I detest the presence of all Vampires!"
He then turned to the squealing man in his grasp, opening his twin-jawed mouth wide once more before finally biting down, severing the man's life instantly.
It took an entire night for the bizarre, violent incident to surface. Subway maintenance crews discovered the breach and the horrific scene, eventually reporting the surveillance footage—intact, clear, and horrifyingly detailed—to the clandestine authority that operated the underground clinics.
The footage, depicting the utter savagery of the attack, was immediately classified and reported up the chain of command, finally reaching the one who held absolute dominion: Elida Maginos, the Grand Duke of New York, leader of the ruling Vampire Clan.
The Grand Duke immediately summoned his most elite and powerful warriors.
"Your Excellency, surely you didn't assemble the council for this… thing," sneered Reihart, a corpulent, bald, middle-aged vampire who served as the clan's chief quartermaster. He visibly recoiled from the image of Chadnorma's monstrous transformation displayed on the large screen.
"It's clearly some kind of unstable mutant, a flesh-eater! We should dispatch the night-hunters and be done with it."
"Mind your rules, Reihart!" snapped Asa, a polite, impeccably dressed black man who stood beside the Duke, serving as his chief strategist and adviser. Asa's face was etched with distaste. "You are addressing the High Duke; maintain your respect and silence."
The Vampire Duke, a repulsive figure whose true appearance belied the polished elegance of his robes—his skin thin, his face unnaturally aged and pinched—raised a single, clawed hand to quiet the dispute.
"Enough, Asa. Do not concern yourself with him." The Duke rose, supported by the hand of the young woman beside him. "Our priority is not the man's manners, but the threat to our survival. This is not some common mutant. This is a Ragnar."
The statement sent a chill through the room, even among the hardened vampires.
The woman who supported the Duke was Nisa, his only daughter and the heir apparent to the New York ruling party—the very woman Zhou Yi had briefly encountered weeks ago. Nisa was exquisitely beautiful, possessing a lethal grace that contrasted sharply with the Duke's true, repulsive visage.
Duke Maginos stared at the screen, his dark, ancient eyes filled with a terrifying mix of fear and hatred.
"This creature spoke the Old Tongue and declared its absolute hatred for us, the Draugr! We are exposed. This is not an attack; it is a declaration of war by one of the old ones. Our entire operation—our Blood Tax on the city's vulnerable—is now compromised. We need a grand plan to eliminate this threat before it can expose our existence to the world of mortals."