Title: The Vampire King of Britannia

The black carriage sped through the muddy roads, its wheels kicking up grime and filth as it cut through the damp night. Fireflies flickered outside the window, their soft glow swallowed by the darkness, while the low hum of the engine disrupted the silence.

In the driver's seat, Rudolph bit down on an unlit cigar, rolling it between his fingers. With his free hand, he flicked on the car's radio, tapping his fingers to the slow, rhythmic tune.

His gaze drifted to the rearview mirror.

The detective, having just concluded his examination of the crime scene, had been unusually quiet.

Lorien now sat slumped in the backseat, arms crossed, eyes shut, his body tilting slightly with the bumps in the road. He appeared to be fast asleep.

Whitechapel Police Station, London County

Vincent and Winnie, having left the estate ahead of Lorien, had already returned to the city with Ivins in custody.

The suspect was escorted into an interrogation room, where an officer took his statement.

"Name?"

"Ivins."

"Age?"

"Thirty-one."

"Gender?"

"Male."

"Place of birth?"

"Plymouth."

The interrogator paused, flipping through a few papers before asking:

"Do you contest the charge of murdering Jack Arnold?"

Ivins hunched his shoulders, glancing around the small, suffocating interrogation room before murmuring:

"No contest."

The clerk nodded, recording his response.

Realizing there was no point in resisting, Ivins provided a full confession—his motive, the execution of the crime, and the subsequent staging of a fake suicide.

With this confession, along with the physical evidence found in his room, the case was effectively closed.

Under standard procedure, Ivins would be detained for 24 hours before being formally transferred to court for trial. Until then, he would be held in complete isolation, barred from any contact except with his legal representative. Given the overwhelming evidence against him, it was almost certain that he would be convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to hanging.

The only potential "loophole" was if he were declared legally insane.

Under the Naughton Ordinance, criminal offenders diagnosed with severe mental illness could be acquitted on grounds of insanity. However, they would instead face indefinite commitment to a psychiatric facility under strict supervision.

Of course, the final decision lay with the court.

And someone as insignificant as Ivins had no chance of escaping the gallows.

"While you're in custody, you have the right to legal representation, the right to make a phone call..."

The officer read him his legal rights as he was escorted to his holding cell.

"Do you understand these rights as they have been explained to you?"

"Yes."

The officer smirked.

"Then enjoy your last peaceful night, murderer."

He tossed a glance around the grimy cell.

"Apologies for the accommodations. Unfortunately, most of the department's budget goes into fixing up the inspector's private residences. The holding cells? Well, let's just say they don't rank very high on the priority list."

With that, he clicked the iron bars shut, locking Ivins inside before walking away.

Left alone in the dim, suffocating cell, Ivins collapsed onto the narrow cot. He dug his fingers into his hair, his mind racing with spiraling thoughts.

This is it. It's over.

There was no escape. The evidence against him was insurmountable. Even if he hired the best lawyer money could buy, there was no saving him.

His future was sealed—he would stand trial, be convicted, and soon after, find himself on the gallows.

The image played over and over in his head.

The rough hands of the executioner tightening the noose around his neck.

The coarse burlap sack thrown over his face.

The sharp, merciless drop.

The snap.

Ivins shuddered.

His breathing turned ragged, his chest tightening with sheer, unrelenting fear.

"No... no, no, no."

He slapped himself hard across the face, trying to jolt himself out of the nightmare playing in his mind.

But it didn't work.

The nightmare wasn't in his head.

It was real.

Just then—

Flicker.

The single dim lightbulb overhead flickered for a moment.

Then, just as suddenly, all the background noises from the adjacent holding cells disappeared.

The restless shuffling, the murmured cursing, the distant rattling of iron bars—

All of it vanished.

Leaving behind an unnatural, suffocating silence.

Ivins tensed.

His breath hitched as his eyes darted around the room.

The tiny, barred window near the ceiling allowed only a sliver of moonlight to seep inside. The ventilation grates on the iron door let in faint streaks of hallway light, but the narrow passage beyond remained eerily still.

The cell itself was sparse—two wooden cots, the walls covered in decades of crude scratches, flaking paint, and dark stains.

A proper prison inspector would probably deem this space "uninhabitable."

But in Whitechapel, certain laws had... flexible enforcement.

"Gulp."

Ivins swallowed thickly.

A cold sweat trickled down his spine, and the fine hairs on his arms stood on end.

He wasn't brave.

And right now, he felt absolutely terrified.

Something was wrong.

He felt it.

Not imagined. Not paranoia.

Something out there was watching him.

He stiffened.

In the dim shadows beyond the door, something pulsed.

Something black.

Thick, ink-like tendrils slithered along the hallway, curling around the iron bars, slipping between the cracks, reaching for him.

Ivins' chest seized.

"What… what the hell is that?!"

The impossible sight made his skin crawl.

No, no, no—this had to be a dream.

Yes, that's it. A dream.

He never killed Jack Arnold.

The body was never discovered.

The detective never came.

He was never arrested.

"Hah… yeah. That must be it."

Ivins let out a shaky laugh, convincing himself that if he waited just a little longer—just a moment more—he would wake up in his own bed.

But his body wasn't listening.

His instincts screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go.

So he did the only thing he could.

He backed into the farthest corner of the cell, pressing his back against the cold stone wall.

Desperately clinging to whatever false sense of security it provided.

His mind reeled with half-remembered urban legends—whispered tales of shadowy figures in alleyways, of monsters lurking in London's underbelly, of spirits that haunted the damned.

Madness threatened to swallow him whole.

Slap!

He struck himself again, harder this time, trying to wake up.

But reality did not shift.

The shadows did not retreat.

The black mass continued creeping toward him, crawling across the floor, stretching toward his trembling legs.

And he had nothing.

No weapons.

Not even a blanket to shield himself.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Unhurried.

Approaching from the hallway beyond the bars.

Ivins' breath hitched.

He turned his head toward the door, his face ghostly pale.

A tall silhouette loomed in the dim light, standing just beyond the bars.

Then, in a voice slow and deliberate, it spoke: