BLADE ISN'T THE ONLY DAYWALKER
They called him Rook, a codename that fit his calculated brutality and unwavering purpose. A recent addition to the vampire-hunting fold, Rook had risen from the ashes of Deacon Frost’s latest massacre—a survivor in the cruellest sense. Frost’s bloodlust had created yet another Daywalker, but unlike Blade, Rook didn’t stumble into his powers; he weaponized them immediately. A former black-ops soldier with a meticulous mind, Rook had tracked Frost for weeks, leaving a trail of dismembered vampires in his wake. His hatred for Frost burned hotter than sunlight on undead flesh.
When Blade found him, Rook was in the middle of dismantling an underground blood farm in Kyoto, his twin blades whirling through the air like deadly whispers. The room was chaos, the kind only vampires knew how to manufacture—shrieking thralls, charred remains, and the scent of fear thick in the air. Blade stepped into the wreckage, his iconic shades glinting in the crimson emergency lights.
"You're good," Blade said, leaning casually against the shattered remains of a feeding pod. "But you can’t do this alone."
Rook didn’t pause in his slaughter, decapitating a charging fledgling in one smooth motion before turning to Blade, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “Neither can you,” he shot back, his voice cold and guttural. It wasn’t a question, and Blade smirked.
Now, as Rook prowled through the neon-soaked streets of Hong Kong with Blade at his side, his mind was laser-focused on the mission. Deacon Frost wasn’t just a target; he was an inevitability, a storm Rook intended to end with extreme prejudice. Together, the Daywalkers moved like shadows, striking where the vampire scourge thought itself untouchable. Frost might have created Rook, but Rook would make damn sure he was the last mistake Frost ever made.
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