My phone died slowly. The screen dimmed, then went dark entirely.
I tossed it onto the dashboard with a long exhale. I'd been trying to reach Dr. Richard for the past hour—hoping he might have at least one lead on my father, some point where their paths had crossed. All I got was the operator's automated message.
In the driver's seat, Alan was silent. Eyes straight ahead, hands steady on the wheel. The speedometer needle was leaning hard to the right—almost touching ninety miles an hour.
The car cut through Arida's night roads fast enough to make every curve feel like a personal threat to my stomach. Alan drove smoothly—his focus reading the asphalt and lane markings in the dark like he had sonar built in. Sometimes I forgot he wasn't human.
"Alan, Toyama is six and a half hours from here," I said, glancing over at him. "Do you want to rest? We can switch."
"No need." Eyes still forward. "We stop once for gas. That's it. I've got the rest."
"You can't just do that. Aren't you exhausted?"
"You're forgetting. Racing is basically wired into my nerves. Toyama is a warm-up lap."
He barely finished that sentence when a horn blared from a vehicle we'd nearly clipped. My reflex was immediate—both hands grabbed the seatbelt, one foot pressed into the floor mat like I could somehow brake from the passenger seat. Alan swerved without a single change in expression, the wheels sliding in a clean arc, a safe distance restored within seconds.
I swallowed the near-scream. That alone deserved an award. Once before, Alan had driven me to campus when I was running late to the festival opening—and that had already felt fast. But tonight was on another level entirely. My hands kept alternating between the seatbelt and the door panel—the two most solid things within reach in what felt like an unstable world.
I started talking again. That's how I functioned—when my brain had things to process, putting words in the air helped keep the panic from winning.
"So when we actually get there—what's the plan? The restaurant won't be open first thing in the morning."
"We'll reserve now." Alan glanced over briefly, a thin smile that already looked like it had a plan behind it. "I want the most strategic table. One that lets us watch the whole floor—every staff member, every angle."
That made sense. I grabbed my phone and opened the La Chance seating map from their website.
"Okay, center table. Done."
"Perfect."
I exhaled—mostly relieved, until a second later the side mirror almost kissed a truck parked on the shoulder. My mouth snapped shut.
I knew my panic could throw off his concentration, so I held it in. Alan was clearly pushing himself as hard as he could to help us get there. The least I could do was cooperate, even if the rhythm of this ride was worse than any roller coaster. The most extreme amusement park ride lasted ten minutes—this was hours long, and the finish line wasn't a theme park.
Maybe the silence I settled into was a kind of surrender. With the speed. With the situation. With everything waiting at the end of this road: my father, La Chance, and whatever enemy still hadn't shown its face.
Who were we actually going to meet? If there were records of old employees, where would they even keep them? Would the manager say anything? And the one that made my palms sweat—what if Danzel was already following the same trail? What if the werewolf faction was already one step ahead?
One wrong person to talk to, one miscalculated move—and everything would be over.
My head was starting to spin. I chose to close my eyes instead.
"Sleep." Alan's voice cut through, calm inside the engine's steady hum.
"I can't."
"Trust me, Alina."
"I literally can't. I'm watching the road and having a minor heart attack."
"Pretend it's a VR game."
"Alan, I'm serious." I crossed my arms and turned toward him.
"Stop looking at it." His hand reached for a button on the side, and my seat slowly reclined. I glanced at him—expression still not fully convinced—but Alan had already extended one hand toward me, without letting go of the wheel, and ran it slowly through my hair.
At ninety miles an hour. With one hand.
I finally lay back and looked up at the car ceiling.
"The moon is really bright tonight," I said, watching the light sweep past the window.
"Full moon."
"Why do you sound annoyed?"
"I've never liked the moon."
"Why? It's beautiful—elegant through the clouds."
"The moon is part of vampire identity. A lot of things happen under a full moon. Dances, gatherings, rituals—all kinds of things. The night I left the clan was a full moon too."
"So every full moon they all gather? Vampires from everywhere in the world?"
"Not every full moon. More like once every few decades."
"Where?"
"It changes. Vincent has a lot of castles."
The vibration of the tires on the asphalt settled into something steady—a rhythmic hum filling the quiet. My thoughts drifted toward Vincent. I imagined the man standing somewhere, speaking casually, issuing orders to hundreds of vampires under a full moon's glow. Unsettling. Strange that I'd apparently been perfectly calm around him as a child.
Apparently, that soft moonlight doubled as an alarm signal for their entire kind.
Emerald moon. A green moon. Wasn't emerald green the color of werewolf eyes? And the moon was a vampire symbol. What was that name supposed to mean? I glanced at Alan, wondering if he was thinking the same thing.
But who knew.
My eyes drifted shut—just to rest my thoughts for a moment.
Somehow, I actually fell asleep.
My eyes opened slowly.
Bright. Morning sunlight stabbed straight into my eyes.
The car had stopped. Engine off. I sat up sharply, sweeping the surroundings as fast as I could. A classic European-style building stood ahead—exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling glass panels, and an elegant sign in gold cursive script: La Chance.
I turned to the side. Alan was still sitting behind the wheel like he'd done nothing more taxing than drive around the block. His hair was slightly mussed, but his face showed zero trace of someone who'd just driven six hours straight without stopping. Fresh. Way too fresh to be human.
"You genuinely didn't sleep at all?" I murmured, rubbing my eyes.
"Good morning, Alina." He gave a quiet smile. "Somehow, even after sleeping in my car, you're still stunning."
An awkward laugh slipped out of me. That was the first thing he'd said after hours of driving.
"Sleep deprivation is clearly short-circuiting your brain."
"I'm serious. Your presence is like energy for me. It stimulates my sensory system and raises oxytocin."
"Okay, now you're glitching. You need food."
Alan let out a short laugh. The tension lifted for just a moment—until someone in a neatly pressed white shirt flipped the sign from 'Closed' to 'Open'.
"They're open. Come on!" I said, brightening despite myself.
We got out, straightened ourselves up, and stepped inside. The place was warm—the smell of browned butter mixed with strong coffee, soft yellow lighting making everything look elegant even this early. A server guided us to a table near the central pillar—exactly what Alan had requested. From here I could see the kitchen entrance, the register, the bar, and the back door.
The menus arrived. I ordered pasta and a cup of tea, while our eyes quietly got to work.
We watched every server who passed: wrists, necks, even the gaps behind their collars. Looking for one thing—the butterfly H symbol. Tattoo, jewelry, anything. Nothing.
Their reactions to Alan didn't escape my attention either. For Hammer, vampires were partners in a mutually beneficial arrangement. With those blue eyes and the silver arc in his irises, Alan wasn't ordinary—and that was visible to anyone who knew where to look. If even one person here had worked under my father, they would recognize exactly who was sitting at table seven.
Still nothing. Every expression was a flat, polished fine-dining smile.
My food arrived. I ate slowly to look normal, while my brain quietly started running into walls.
Out of nowhere, Alan set a small metal bottle on the table—red and white, his favorite. Gora.
A server clearing the neighboring table stepped over immediately. "I'm sorry, sir. Guests aren't permitted to bring outside beverages."
"Of course, my apologies." Alan smiled pleasantly, tucking the bottle back into his pocket. "I thought you might carry something like this. Gora—does the restaurant sell anything similar?"
The server's brow creased; he looked genuinely puzzled. "Gora? I've never heard of it, sir. We have a fairly extensive wine selection, but for that specific name… I don't believe we carry it."
"Not a problem. Please forget I asked." Alan smiled again.
Once the server moved away, Alan leaned toward me. "Notice that?"
"That's your own brand, Alan. Do all Humanos know what it is?"
"They should be familiar with it. Hammer donors—their blood gets sold in cans just like these. Mine is the only one I named myself."
"So now what?"
"Most of the staff here are probably in their thirties." His eyes swept the room one more time. "If Luveri was here before he brought your mother out, we're talking over twenty years ago."
I set my fork down slowly. "We need senior staff. Someone who's been here since the beginning." I looked around.
"Which means," Alan continued, "we need to get to whoever runs this place. The manager, or the owner himself."
I leaned back in my chair. "And we can't just wave a server over and say, 'Hi, could you get your boss for us?'"
"Obviously not." Alan looked at me steadily. "We need a reason that forces the manager to come out on their own."
A wild idea hit me the second our eyes met.
"Alan."
"Yeah?"
"How good are you at acting?"
Without waiting for his answer, I moved first.
Slam.
The sound cracked across the entire restaurant. The clinking of silverware stopped cold. Several diners turned. The nearest server froze.
"So that's what this is?!" I let my voice come out sharp and wounded—trembling with the most convincing betrayal I could manufacture. I stared at Alan like he had personally destroyed my life. "You had the nerve to call me by another woman's name?!"
He blinked for a fraction of a second—the surprise was clearly real. But he was brilliant at reading a situation. Two seconds was all it took for his face to shift: panicked, defensive, exactly like a man who'd just been caught.
"Sakura? Who's Sakura—I'm Alina!"
"Wait, wait, please—" Alan lowered his voice and raised both hands. "I slipped up. This is just a misunderstanding, sweetheart."
"A misunderstanding?! You said another woman's name three times in one conversation. Three times!" I grabbed a napkin from the table and threw it straight at his face.
"I was just admiring the sakura trees. You're overreacting."
"Admiring what? Just admit you think she's special."
"Physically, she is prettier—you said that yourself before."
My face went hot. That last line actually hit something.
"You jerk. Spoiled rich-boy delinquent, acting like that money is even yours." I cranked up the volume without actually losing the thread.
"Oh yeah? You're the one who keeps coming to me with your hand out whenever you need money!"
This time Alan fired back. Reflexively, I grabbed his hair. He made a sound and tried to shake free, until my grip released on its own. Without wasting a second I grabbed the water glass from the table and poured every last drop directly onto his shirt.
Splash.
The couple at the next table jumped. The refined, elegant atmosphere went taut as an overtightened guitar string. Two security guards in black blazers were already moving from the corner of the room.
"Miss, please calm down—" the security guard stepped in.
"No! This man needs to learn a lesson today!"
"What lesson? You had to retake second-semester classes."
"Alan, you are such a jerk!"
"Look in a mirror. You act like taking down three guys makes you a hero."
"You are going to regret this."
"Miss, please—" A security guard's hand came toward me, and I shoved it aside—a little harder than needed. In the process, my arm clipped the edge of our table hard.
Crash.
My pasta plate hit the floor. Red sauce exploded in every direction.
"Alina, I have had enough!" Alan performed contained fury flawlessly.
When security grabbed his arm to pull him back, his foot "caught" on the base of the wooden room divider in a spectacularly perfect stumble—a long display shelf lined with neat rows of wine bottles.
CRASH.
The shelf collapsed. Dozens of wine bottles hit the tile floor in rapid succession, spilling dark red liquid across the restaurant like a flood. The smell of alcohol hit everyone at once. Guests screamed and pushed back from their tables.
My partner in crime stood rigid in the center of the broken glass, wearing a perfectly fake shocked expression. The security guard beside him had completely stalled out—too overwhelmed to even know where to start.
"Stop! What the hell is going on here?"
One shout—heavy, furious, and sharp—broke through the crowd from the direction of the staircase. An older man in a fitted suit cut through the remaining guests still frozen in place. His face was red. The vein at his temple was visible.
"Security—bring both of them to my office. Right now."
We exchanged a quick glance, letting our expressions stay carefully half-reluctant. We followed security through a long corridor to the room at the far end. The moment the door closed, the noise from outside was completely cut off.
The older man stood behind his desk, looking at us like he was choosing the most satisfying punishment.
"You're both adults. You can think." His tone was low, held under serious pressure. "The damage you caused isn't cheap. Guests were frightened, the restaurant lost revenue—and I will have both of you working here for a full year without pay."
I stepped forward first. "Excuse me? He started it." My finger pointed at Alan. "I didn't knock those bottles over. That should be on him alone."
"Doesn't matter. You started together, you finish together."
"I'm not doing that."
"Take responsibility, or I call the police."
"Are the police going to pay for the damage? At most, we spend a month locked up—and your money still doesn't come back."
The older man let out a short laugh. He reached for a cigar, lit it, and turned toward the window. His posture turned cold—probably running through consequences more satisfying than a jail threat.
Meanwhile, I tracked Alan from the corner of my eye. His gaze quietly circled the office—scanning the paintings on the walls, the objects on the desk, framed photos, the smallest decorative details. I knew exactly what he was looking for.
The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth gave me the answer. No Hammer symbols. No butterfly logo anywhere.
Silence settled in as our "argument" ran out of material. The manager let out a long breath, mouth opening—ready to launch into the next round of lecturing.
Alan took one step forward.
His expression shifted back to its real setting: cold, direct, dominant.
"Luveri Hamish." Alan dropped the name without ceremony, his voice low and precise. "Did he ever work here?"
The manager froze completely. Whatever emotion had been moving across his face evaporated, replaced by barely contained shock. A very long silence stretched before he finally moved.
"I don't… I don't know who that is," he said. Stiff.
"Don't lie." I cut in immediately, my tone flipping entirely. "Your face just gave you away. Answer honestly: did he work here or not?"
"What business is it of yours?"
"We just need information about him. Nothing beyond that."
The manager went quiet, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The composure that had kept his shoulders rigid was slowly coming apart. He looked at us like he was calculating the distance to the door—but Alan's gaze had already covered every door.
"Yes." His voice finally broke, exhausted. "Luveri did work here. But he didn't really work."
"What does that mean?"
"He showed up whenever he felt like it. Took days off like this place was his personal property." The manager's tone hardened with years of accumulated frustration. "Helped himself to the wine. Ate in front of guests. He always paid—but that's not how employees conduct themselves. Did I resent it? Obviously."
"Why didn't you fire him from the start?"
The manager gave a humorless snort. "Because while Luveri was here, this restaurant was never empty. His friends came through every single evening—in groups. Plenty of customers would mention knowing him when they made reservations."
He looked at us with something that had given up being anger. "You know what? After Luveri disappeared without a word, I lost half my regular customers. Revenue dropped off a cliff."
"Where did he go?"
"No idea. No resignation letter. No goodbye." Cigar smoke curled upward. "Damn that man."
Alan went quiet for a moment, processing each word. Then his hand went into his inner pocket, pulled out a check, filled in the amount without hesitating, and set it on the desk.
"That covers the wine, the shelf, and the information," Alan said, flat.
Without another word, we walked back out through the corridor, passing employees still cleaning up, customers whispering among themselves, and two security guards left stunned by how easily we were walking away.
"My read," Alan said once we were outside the restaurant, keeping his voice low, "is that Luveri's 'customers' were Hammer people. This expensive place was their quiet unofficial base—legitimate-looking, never drawing suspicion. Not even from the manager."
"That tracks." I nodded slowly. "Dad built a legal base camp under the cover of a crowd."
We walked toward the car at an unhurried pace. But as I turned toward the door, something across the way caught the edge of my vision.
In the loading dock behind the building, a middle-aged man in a warehouse courier uniform was standing there.
He was staring at me.
Our eyes met. A second later, he smiled slowly—wide, soundless, the way someone smiles after running into an old friend somewhere impossible.
He waved and started jogging toward us.
Who is that?