The city of Camp Vamps was a pulsating heart of neon and blood. Its skyline cut jagged against the midnight sky, a jagged crown of steel and glass that seemed to scrape at the heavens. The air, thick with the acrid smell of chemical smoke and the faint, unmistakable scent of blood, hung heavy around Sioux's shoulders as they stalked the streets, half-blending into the shadows, half-engulfed by them. This city was their prison and their inheritance.

The moon, obscured by layers of mist, bled a sickly, pale glow over the towering buildings, reflecting off the puddles of rain that had yet to be swept away. The ground was slick, mirroring the chaos above, and Sioux's boots sloshed through the wet streets, each step a reminder of the slippery nature of existence in Camp Vamps. It was as if the city itself were alive, breathing in sync with the restless heartbeats of its inhabitants.

Sioux's face was hidden beneath a tattered hood, the only thing visible was their eyes—shining with the strange fire of someone both tired and driven. Blood-red streaks ran through their hair, a visual echo of their dark heritage. They had once been human—had once believed in things like kindness, peace, and even redemption—but that was before the mask. Before they had learned the truth about the bloodlines, the power struggles, the things the Masquerade didn't want anyone to see.

As they moved deeper into the heart of the city, the streets became more crowded, more dangerous. Here, in the Underground, the air smelled of desperation—mortal and vampire alike, all scrambling to survive in the chokehold of a city ruled by blood and addiction. Neon signs flickered in the distance, advertising things that seemed too vile to be true: "Serotonin Special - Just one hit for eternal life!" "Vampire's Kiss, for those who crave the night."

Sioux's heart skipped a beat at the thought of serotonin—an elixir that not only fueled the vampires but kept the mortals tethered in servitude, feeding off their desperation. The drug was both a symbol of power and a tool of control. Sioux had once been addicted to it too—before they discovered how far the web of lies stretched. Now, the thought of serotonin made their stomach churn, but there was no escaping it, no running from it. It was in the air, in their blood. It was everywhere.

A soft hum filled the night air. The sound of Camp Vamps Radio, always present, always watching. The signal crackled, the voice distorted by static, but still unmistakable, as if the speakers themselves were haunted.

"You're now listening to Camp Vamps Radio, bitch. Sippin' blood like I'm a vampire..."

Sioux's lip curled into a sneer as they pulled their hood tighter. The radio was the pulse of the city, feeding the masses with lies, propaganda, and the beat of a lifestyle drenched in decadence. The radio hosts, masked figures who spoke from the safety of hidden stations, were the true rulers here, using their voice to manipulate every corner of the city. Sioux had heard enough of their hollow promises and empty bravado. This was the sound of control, the sound of tyranny masked as freedom.

A shadow moved across the alley, and Sioux's instincts flared. In a heartbeat, they pressed their back against the cool, damp brick wall, their eyes narrowing. Footsteps echoed—a single pair, the rhythm heavy with purpose. Sioux's fingers brushed the familiar cool steel of Bonnie and Clyde, the twin Glocks they kept tucked at their sides. It wasn't the first time they'd had to face down the city's vultures—low-level enforcers sent by the Masquerade to keep the lesser vampires in check. They'd learned to be careful, to be quiet.

But this wasn't just any patrol.

The figure who stepped into view was tall, wearing a long, leather trench coat that flowed like a shadow in the night. Their face was obscured by a black mask, and their posture was rigid with the kind of practiced arrogance that only comes with knowing you control every living thing around you. It was a vampire, their eyes glimmering faintly in the dim light—a predator in search of prey.

The figure stopped in front of Sioux, as if they had been expecting them all along. A slow smile spread across the vampire's lips, one that didn't quite reach their eyes.

"I knew you'd come, Sioux," the vampire said, voice smooth like velvet wrapped around glass. "The city's not big enough for you to hide forever."

Sioux didn't flinch. They had grown used to the presence of the Masquerade's enforcers, the way they moved through the city like ghosts—always there, always watching. But Sioux wasn't like the others. They had something the vampires feared: knowledge. And knowledge was power.

"I'm not hiding," Sioux muttered, stepping out of the shadows with a quiet defiance. The cold air pressed against their skin, sending a shiver down their spine. "I'm here to end this."

The vampire's mask twitched, a subtle shift of recognition. They reached into their coat, fingers brushing against a sleek, silver-hilted blade—a weapon known as the Fang of the First, a symbol of the Masquerade's authority.

"You're not the first to try, Sioux," the vampire said, voice a warning. "You won't be the last. But you're a fool if you think you can destroy the Masquerade."

Sioux's eyes flicked to the blade, then back to the vampire's eyes, unwavering.

"I'm not trying to destroy anything," they said, their voice cold and clear. "I'm here to take back what's mine."

Before the vampire could respond, Sioux lunged, quick and fluid, the twin Glocks snapping into their hands. The flash of metal, the sharp scent of gunpowder, and the heavy thud of the bullets landing in the vampire's chest were the only sounds that broke the quiet of the alley. 

The vampire crumpled to the ground, a stunned look on their masked face. Sioux didn't wait to see them die. They didn't need to. The city had its blood-suckers, its parasites. And Sioux had no time for games.

Turning, they vanished into the night, their heart pounding not with fear, but with the fire of something far more dangerous—revenge.