At last, Donald reached a narrow street that zigzagged toward the train station—just a few blocks beyond the old city walls. From there, he could wait for his accomplices. Relieved, he picked up his pace—until a shadow stepped out of an alley and blocked his way.
Donald froze. At first, he thought it might be some late-night wanderer, but the figure, silhouetted in the weak glow of the streetlamps, stood motionless in the middle of the road. Donald hesitated, glanced behind him—two more strangers emerged from the opposite corner.
This isn't good, he thought.
Deciding to retreat, he turned toward the plaza, but another figure joined the first, and Donald realized they were all young men. Gathering what courage he had, the fat man tried to pass, but the two in front of him—pale as the moon, hoods pulled up over their heads—blocked his path.
"Excuse me," Donald said, forcing a polite smile. "Would you mind letting me through?"
They grinned mockingly, stepping aside as if to grant him passage—then, as he moved between them, each seized one of his arms, jerking him so violently that his suitcase and toolbox clattered to the ground.
"What the hell—?" he barked as they shoved him into the alley. In seconds, he was cornered, surrounded by four of them, all smiling with a cruel, hungry gleam.
"What's wrong with you people?" Donald stammered, his voice cracking.
"Quiet," one of them hissed, slamming him against the wall.
"If it's money you want—I've got some—please, just let me go," he pleaded, trembling.
"Easy, big guy," one of them said in a foreign accent. "We don't want money."
"What… what do you want?" Donald whispered.
The young man smiled. "Something… more satisfying." He ran a cold hand along Donald's thick neck. "What do you think, Bleik?"
"Looks… juicy," the other replied. "Plenty for all of us."
A chill ran through Donald's spine—their hands were icy, corpse-cold. He tried to shout, but a hand clamped over his mouth. One of them bared a grin full of sharp, glistening teeth. The others held him still, like butchers restraining a pig for slaughter.
Then—from somewhere down the street—came a long, haunting howl. It echoed through the narrow medieval lanes.
The creatures froze. Their eyes darted toward the sound. Then, without a word, they released Donald, shoving him to the ground before fleeing into the darkness.
Donald gasped for air, shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly, he felt hands grab his shoulders. He let out a terrified moan and turned—only to see a gaunt face framed by gray hair parted in two bands, eyes like steel beneath dark brows, and a worn, shadowed expression that somehow inspired both fear and relief.
"Victor?" Donald gasped.
"Hello, Donald," said Victor Walder calmly. "Seems you've made some new friends."
"What the hell were those—those things?"
"Vampires," Victor said dryly.
"Vampires? What are you talking about?"
"Just a pack of young hooligans who fancy themselves predators. They ambush fools like you."
"Bloody hell…" Donald muttered. Then he frowned. "And what the hell are you doing here?"
"Perhaps the same thing you are."
"I'm working," Donald said defensively. "Restoring the altar in Santa Maria Onofre. Thirteenth-century piece. University commission."
"Impressive," Victor murmured. "I hope they're paying you well."
"It's for the university."
"How noble," Victor said, his voice laced with irony. "Do you actually expect me to believe that?"
"I don't care what you believe. What surprises me is seeing you here—especially—"
"Enough," Victor interrupted, his tone hardening. "We both know why you're here. You have something that belongs to me."
Donald stiffened. "What… what are you talking about?"
"A key piece."
"I don't have it."
Victor's eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me." He raised his fist.
Donald began to sweat. "I swear, Victor—"
"For the last time," Victor said quietly, "where is it?"
Donald's eyes darted toward his bag. "What are you going to do?"
Victor pulled out a gun. The fat man stumbled backward, tripping over his fallen toolbox.
"Help! Somebody help me!" he screamed, trying to run, but Victor caught him easily, slammed him against the wall, and twisted his arm behind his back.
"Calm down," Victor said evenly. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You already are!" Donald squealed.
"There's always a worse option."
"Don't kill me…"
"Then don't give me a reason to," Victor said coldly. "Now—the piece."
"I don't have it—OW!" Donald cried out as Victor tightened his grip. "All right! All right! It's in the backpack!"
Victor snatched the bag, keeping his gun trained on him. Inside, he found the disk. His lips curved into a satisfied smile.
"Good. I have what I came for."
"What the hell is that thing?"
"Not your concern," Victor said, pocketing it. Then he reached into his own satchel and pulled out another object—a small egg-shaped relic, gleaming like a Fabergé jewel, engraved with dancing skeletons. Donald's mouth fell open.
"So that's what you were after," Victor said, amused. "You had no idea what the other piece even was. Typical." He sighed. "Now I'm complete… which means I can finally get rid of you."
"Please, don't hurt me!"
"Oh, don't tempt me," Victor growled. "I'd enjoy putting a bullet between your eyes."
Donald whimpered.
"But I'll be merciful," Victor said after a pause. "I'm in a hurry—and I need one last favor."
"Wh-what kind of favor?"
"I need a ticket. Train leaves in an hour. You'll buy it for me."
Donald hesitated.
"Is that a yes?" Victor asked, pressing the gun to his temple.
He pulled out his smartphone, opened a travel app, and handed it over. "Your credit card, please."
Donald fumbled it out. Victor typed quickly, smirking. "Ah, technology. Robbery has never been so civilized." He tossed the card to the ground. "Now—you'll stay put and count to a hundred. One false move, and your brains decorate the wall."
"I'll do it," Donald stammered. "I'll do it. One… two…"
Victor stepped back, crouched, set the gun on the cobblestone, and began walking away.
Donald, eyes squeezed shut, kept counting. The footsteps faded. He cracked one eye open. The street was empty.
"Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…" He turned slowly. Gone. Relief washed over him—until, under a flickering streetlight, he spotted something on the ground.
The gun.
He picked it up, curious, and froze. It was plastic.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered. Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
Mike.
He answered.
"How's it going?" Mike asked. "We're almost there."
"How's it going? HOW'S IT GOING? I WAS ROBBED BY VICTOR!" Donald screamed. "HE HAS THE PIECE!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Are you deaf? VICTOR TOOK THE PIECE!"
"You idiot!" Mike shouted through the line. "How could you let that happen? You had a weapon!"
"It was a surprise attack, all right?"
"Idiot! Go after him. That gun I gave you—it's not ordinary. Hurry!"
Donald hung up, dug through his toolbox, and pulled out the weapon. It wasn't a regular gun—more like a stinger, sleek and humming faintly. He tested the trigger. Nothing. He pulled again—this time a blue beam burst across the street, exploding against a wall in a shower of glowing sparks.
Donald's face twisted in disbelief. Then he started running.
"WALDER!" he bellowed, gasping for breath. "COME BACK, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"