The rain had stopped by dawn, but the city still smelled like it hadn’t forgiven the night.
Max sat hunched over her desk, surrounded by a chaos of open files, half-drained coffee cups, and the pale glow of her laptop. The world outside her window was waking up—horns, engines, chatter—but in her apartment, time had stalled somewhere between fear and obsession.
The truth wasn’t a door she’d opened.
It was a hole she’d fallen through.
Lucian Michaels—vampire, detective, monster—whatever he was, he had ties to something older, deeper. The Collector. The name kept showing up in missing persons reports, old police logs, even classified cases. Every time, it was connected to silence—the kind of silence paid for in blood.
She typed faster, digging through encrypted archives, bypassing walls she wasn’t supposed to be able to break. One name kept resurfacing in the metadata, tagged to deleted evidence reports and restricted witness lists: Project Ashfall.
She clicked it open.
And froze.
The first file loaded slowly, line by line. At the top of the page:
> SUBJECT: CLAIRE NEWMAN
Status: Deceased (Unrecovered body)
Affiliation: Civilian / Special Interest
Classification: Turned Asset / Failed Conversion
Her heart stuttered once—then again, harder.
That name…
Claire Newman.
The cursor blinked on the screen like it was mocking her disbelief. She whispered it under her breath, the sound foreign and fragile.
“Claire…”
Her Claire.
The girl with the paint-stained fingers and the laugh that used to fill every corner of Max’s world. The one she’d loved before fear and family and the world had ripped them apart.
She scrolled further.
A photo loaded—grainy, black and white.
Long hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes too alive to belong to the dead.
Max’s hand flew to her mouth. “No…”
Under the image, another entry.
> Alias: L. Michaels
Status: Active (Reclassified)
Command Note: Subject achieved partial transformation. Identity preserved under alternate designation. Maintain observation—potential behavioral volatility linked to prior attachment.
The edges of the room blurred.
She backed away from the desk, one hand gripping the chair to keep from falling.
Claire Newman hadn’t died.
She’d become him.
Lucian.
Her throat tightened until breathing hurt. Memories crashed in—the summer nights by the lake, the stolen touches, the promise they never got to keep. The day Claire disappeared and Max’s father made her believe she’d caused it.
It hadn’t been guilt killing her all these years.
It had been a lie.
She slammed the laptop shut, tears slipping free before she could stop them. “Jesus, Claire… what did they do to you?”
For a long moment she just stood there, shaking, letting the weight of it crush the breath from her chest.
Then her phone buzzed.
A single text from a blocked number:
> Now you understand why he hides.
Her stomach dropped. She typed back with trembling fingers.
> Who is this?
> The one who gave him the choice.
> The Collector.
The message vanished from the thread as soon as it sent—erased itself like it had never existed.
Max stared at the screen, knuckles white around the phone. Her tears dried to salt. Fear turned to something else—resolve.
If the Collector thought she’d stop now, he didn’t know her at all.
She reopened the laptop, heart still breaking, eyes burning red.
Her search bar blinked, waiting.
She typed slowly, deliberately:
> Project Ashfall: The Making of Lucian Michaels.
And hit enter.
KAMU SEDANG MEMBACA
Code Red
VampirThey call me Detective Michaels. The city's boogeyman with a badge. Every bastard dealing flesh or poison knows my name, and they damn well should - because when I come knocking, I don't leave survivors. But here's the thing nobody knows - I'm not h...
