The sun didn't rise over a clean city, but it rose nonetheless.
Alucard sat in the passenger seat of Anne’s beat-up sedan, his tinted glasses pressed firmly against the bridge of his nose. The interior of the car smelled like stale coffee and the faint, lingering scent of the lavender soap Anne used—a scent he no longer had to pretend he didn't memorize.
His arm was bandaged, the silver-burns from his father’s final struggle taking longer to heal than usual. On his lap sat a fresh, chilled bottle of tomato juice.
Anne reached over, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to him without a word.
"You're remarkably calm for someone whose partner just killed the King of the Damned in a tuxedo," Alucard said, taking a slow sip. It didn't taste like ash today. It tasted like a truce.
"I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to forge to explain why the Sanguine Tower looks like a war zone," Anne replied, her eyes fixed on the road. "I don't have time for a breakdown. Besides, we have a call."
Alucard perked up, his ears catching the rhythmic click of the police scanner. "A body?"
"Found in the archives of the Metropolitan Museum. Drained of blood, but left with a silver coin in their mouth. The night watchman says the security cameras recorded nothing but a cloud of fog."
Alucard leaned back, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "An adaptation of the 'Greek Interpreter,' perhaps? Or something more modern."
"It’s a case, Alucard. Don't get ahead of yourself."
They pulled up to the yellow tape of the new crime scene. As they stepped out, the patrol officers moved aside, giving them a wide berth. The rumors had already started—about the detective who moved too fast and the partner who saw into the dark.
Before they crossed the line, Anne stopped. She reached out and straightened Alucard’s collar, her fingers brushing against the cool skin of his neck. She didn't flinch.
"One rule," she said, looking him in the eye.
"No more hypnosis," Alucard repeated the vow.
"And no more 'Master' talk. If I ever hear that word again, I’m loading the silver rounds."
Alucard bowed his head slightly, a gesture of ancient respect. "Elementary, Detective Jones."
They walked into the museum together—the Sherlock of the shadows and the Watson who finally knew the truth.
Post-Credits: The Sanguine Throne
High above the city, in an office that had already been scrubbed of blood and broken glass, Carmela sat in a new obsidian chair. She was looking at a digital tablet, scrolling through the stock prices of Sanguine Medical, which had miraculously spiked following the "terrorist attack" on the gala.
She took a sip from a crystal flute, her eyes glowing a soft, satisfied amber.
"The King is dead," she whispered to the empty room.
She opened a secure file on her computer. It contained the blueprints for the 'Primal Strain' her father had stolen. She didn't delete it. Instead, she hit Save.
"Long live the Queen."
110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHpufVIumGj
110Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7YYHWH0Klf
然後按「加至主畫面」