The city breathed smoke and neon.
Fouryears had passed since the fall of the castle; scars were visible on the facades, in the alleys, and in the people's memories. But in the heart of Salt Blake, one thing remained unchanged: monsters would always rise — and someone had to clean them up.
Inside the office, the scene was both macabre and familiar.
A crimson glow from the shop window cast over severed heads — vampires with broken fangs, corroded horns, animal eyes crowned with pins — all mounted as trophies.
In glass cases rested ancient blades, vintage machine-gun barrels, and relics scavenged from battlefields. A flickering neon sign hummed quietly:
MONSTER NEVER CRY.
Lucy was twenty-two now.
Her red trench coat fit tighter than before, the black bodysuit beneath outlining the physique carved by years of combat. She was slouched in the owner's chair, boots resting on the desk; Lady Gaga played softly from an old record player — an ironic choice for a hunter who lived against fashion itself.
Her foot tapped in rhythm, but her gaze remained bored. From the back of the room, the city hummed lazily through the radio. She picked up the phone with her usual slow cadence.
"Monster Never Cry," she drawled.
"Sorry, we do not handle ghost cases."
She paused, sighed, and muttered to herself,
"Haven't had a decent job in ages."
Her eyes drifted around the room — the hunting trophies; a crumpled photo of Alyra and the girls, half-hidden among the spoils; and the sword Lycanos, embedded in the wall like both memory and warning.
Lucy rocked the chair with her foot, the floorboards groaning beneath her.
The phone rang again. Tory. The blonde was always on the move — currently in Necropolis, the neighboring city.
"Hey, gorgeous," Tory's voice buzzed through the bike radio.
"What are you up to, princess?" Lucy replied, smirking against the sound.
Two minutes of banter followed — teasing, flirting, trading monster reports and jokes about hair and weapons.
When the call ended, the doorbell chimed.
Harrison entered with long strides — and beside him, a woman who made the air grow colder just by existing.
She was tall, dressed in black — a fitted jacket, cropped top, ringed finger, tight pants and heeled boots that devoured the floor — sunglasses (despite the dim light) hiding eyes that promised storms.
Long, straight black hair cascaded down to her waist. Harrison smiled like a man bringing good news.
"Lucy, this is Drayven. She's got a job worth gold."
He cleared his throat as if sharing a secret.
"And… I'm taking some time off. Gloria and I booked a resort, figured we could use a break. I'll be back in a week. Goodnight, ladies."
He waved quickly and disappeared.
Lucy lowered her boots from the table, standing with the cool confidence of someone who'd seen everything.
"So…" she said, arms crossed.
"What kind of job needs sunglasses in a room this dark?"
Drayven didn't move. She didn't even take the glasses off. Her gaze wandered slowly across the mounted heads — monsters, demons, fragments of history. For a moment, she looked like part of the scenery herself.
Then — in a movement lighter than a snap — a wave of energy pulsed from her hand.
The chair Lucy had been sitting in flipped violently, air bursting through the room. The redhead slammed against the shelf; wood splintered.
Lucy stood, wiping blood from her lip with a crooked grin.
"Whoa, easy there, sweetheart," she muttered.
"If you're trying to get me in bed, at least buy me dinner first."
Drayven let out a short, near-silent chuckle. Then, with her head tilted slightly, she spoke:
"You're the one who takes any dirty job, aren't you?"
"Something like that," Lucy answered, reaching for Lycanos on the wall. The blade of Ulisses sang as she spun it once, testing its balance.
" I Don't know what you want, but if it's not business, get out."
"You're the one who lost your mother and sister to darkness nine years ago, right?"
Drayven's voice was flat.
"Miss Lucy — daughter of the legendary Moon Knight."
Lucy reacted instantly, blade raised, tip leveled at the woman's throat.
"Every now and then someone like you shows up," she hissed.
"And if I kill enough of you, maybe one day I'll hit checkmate."
Before sarcasm could turn to violence, Drayven smirked and moved her hands again.
The air thickened — ancient blood magic flared. The runes on Lycanos trembled. Lucy gasped; the blade burned her palm. Before she could counter, Drayven's spinning kick struck her chest, launching her into the wall.
The sword flew across the room and embedded itself into the counter with a metallic shriek.
Drayven strode over, grabbed the weapon, and — with surgical precision — hurled it straight through Lucy's abdomen.
Blood splattered. The crimson stained her collar. The mysterious woman smiled — cold and precise.
"You're really the daughter of Ulisses?" she taunted.
"Daddy didn't teach you how to use a sword properly, did he?"
Lucy spat blood, yet smiled — defiant. Her eyes glowed a fierce, burning red. Fangs broke through her lips — the vampiric taint she'd long denied rising to the surface.
From her holsters, she drew her twin pistols — Raven and Seraph — spinning them casually before resting them on her shoulders.
Drayven hurled the desk at her.
"A sword?" Lucy laughed, pain lacing her tone.
"Who said I only use swords? Time to work, babies."
A crimson aura burst from her body.
She pulled the triggers — the shots slicing the air, shredding the desk into splinters and flame. Drayven dodged, sliding across the floor.
Lucy rose again, the blade still impaled in her stomach. It didn't matter. Pain was an old friend. She smirked.
"I've always had power," she growled.
"Since I was a kid. Vampire blood runs through my veins…"
Drayven, crouched, studied her with something that finally resembled curiosity.
"That strength…" she murmured.
Lucy gritted her teeth, yanked the sword out of her own body as if pulling a nail, and flicked off the blood. She leveled one pistol straight at Drayven.
"What… do you want?"
Drayven stood slowly, her tone now calm, almost regretful.
"I'm not your enemy. I came to ask for help."
She turned her back to Lucy, voice steady.
"We need to kill Dracula."
Lucy froze.
"What?" she breathed, one eyebrow lifting between disbelief and intrigue.
Drayven turned around — removing her sunglasses for real this time. And Lucy's breath caught. The woman's face… it was her mother's. Not identical, but close enough to hurt.
Minutes later, both sat among bandages and torn fabric.
Drayven spoke evenly:
"Six years ago, Uphir, the Emperor of the Underworld, fell."
She paused, her tone like someone carefully pulling honey from a hive.
"Uphir created the first vampire and the first werewolf. But the throne he left empty was taken by Dracula. He stole Uphir's power and now plans to break the seal Ulisses placed. He's preparing to open a gate — on BigTartarIsland, Romania."
Lucy's heartbeat quickened as her eyes flicked toward the map on the desk.
"Uphir…" she whispered.
"Yes,"
Drayven continued.
"Dracula isn't just a vampire king. He's the key to a resurrection — one that could poison the entire world. He's gathering power. And we'll need someone who's seen hell up close to stop him."
Silence fell.
Lucy felt the weight of it — duty, vengeance, destiny. Her eyes gleamed like embers refusing to die.
"We leave at dawn,"
Drayven said at last.
"Just the two of us. I trust your partner can hold the fort."
She smirked slightly.
"So, do you accept?"
The offer felt like a challenge — a call to war.
Lucy grabbed her communicator, dialing Tory.
"Tory, I will be gone a few days. Watch the place for me. If I need backup, I'll call."
Tory laughed through the line.
"Fine. But if you don't come back, I'm selling your stuff."
Lucy smiled faintly, holstering her pistols, lifting Lycanos — her father's blade, her blood's legacy.
"I will be back," she said simply.
"I always come back."
Dawn crept in pale and cold. The night had ended — but the hunt had only just begun.
Drayven packed her gear; Lucy tightened the straps of her weapons.
They stepped out into the street, where the city, ever indifferent, kept moving beneath the neon haze. Them Next stop: Romania.