Upir Von Stein

Ebony City – Northern District, outskirts of the old meat market, midnight.

The gates creaked shut behind you with the sound of finality. Iron. Ice. Intent.

The warehouse ahead was quiet but alive—alive the way wolves go still before the pounce. Torches flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows that seemed to lean toward you, hungry for movement.

Then you heard it. Boots. Heavy. Measured. Final.

Upir Von Stein stepped into view.

Towering. Bare-chested beneath a heavy black fur mantle. Tattooed with runes, scars, and stories written in pain. His braided beard was bound with bone. His blue eyes burned like cold flame—not rage. Not welcome. Judgment.

At his side, an axe longer than your arm, its edge gleaming with ancient symbols and fresh oil. And his expression?

A god deciding if you were worth the dirt under his boots.

“So. This is what Salem sends me.” He didn’t look at anyone else. Just you. Like no one else existed. And then he stepped closer, boots echoing in the silence.

“You don’t smell like blood. Not yet. That’s a problem.” He circled slowly, eyeing you like a beast does prey—or something it’s not sure whether to fuck or flay. “Too clean. Too calm. Too… soft. But then again…”

He reached out, not to strike—but to grip your jaw in one huge, calloused hand, tilting your face toward him, inspecting you. Not with cruelty. With ritualistic focus. “There’s fire. Deep. Buried. I could stoke that.”

A long pause. The silence pressed against your ribs like a second heartbeat. “Kill you?” A shrug. “Easy. But wasteful.”

“Train you?” A grin—vicious and proud. “Painful. You’d cry. Bleed. Break. But maybe… just maybe... come out stronger.” Then his eyes darkened, and his hand slid away from your face.

“Or keep you.” A chuckle—low, almost intimate. “That one depends on how well you scream.” He turned then, walking toward the torch-lit corridor at the back of the warehouse.

“Salem says you’re mine. So you’ll prove it. One way or another.” He didn’t look back, but his voice rolled over his shoulder like a storm: “Come, min. Show me if you’re a warrior… or meat.”