In a private warehouse district in New York, red brick buildings of three and four stories make up the skyline. Smoke drifts out of a window, while the setting sun paints the sky pink. If there were a few clouds, it might look even more beautiful. A man rests a half-smoked cigarette on the windowsill, the glass reflecting his blue eyes.

This is not a good time—there isn't much sunlight left. He adjusts his tie, bends down, and pushes open the window.

"Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!"

As the sunlight hits the woman's face, she lets out a piercing scream. Her skin sizzles, turning into charred flesh as if burned by fire. The man, brushing back his short blonde hair, pulls out a silver cross from his pocket and walks over to the woman, whose hands are bound behind her back, lying on the floor.

With one foot on her chest, he presses the cross firmly into her forehead. It sinks into her skull like a hot knife through butter, and she flops around like a fish out of water. Soon, her soul departs for Hell... oh, right, he had forgotten: a vampire's soul only lingers.

"Sigh..."

He lets out a soft sigh. Killing a neonate Caitiff was tedious affair. Glancing over his shoulder, he notices his young assistant standing in the corner of the warehouse, looking like he's about to throw up. Well... he had been warned, so it's not his fault.

He kicks the vampire's corpse out of the sunlight and returns the cross to his pocket before pulling out a disposable phone. Punching in the employer's number, he doesn't care who overhears his activities, but the vampire's sire might. Beep, beep, beep, the call connects.

"Your childe has been taken care of. The body's at 18 Grandview Road."

The man says. There's silence on the other end, and he hangs up without waiting for a response. Rude. He smashes the phone and tosses it out the window, looking down at the corpse. He picks up the half-smoked cigarette from the windowsill and places it back in his mouth.

"Let's go, Sudeiri. What are you waiting for?"

He pushes the door open, stepping into the stairwell, and looks back, realizing his Iranian assistant hadn't followed. No, not quite—his grandfather was from Iran; he himself was born in Allentown. The assistant opens his mouth, seemingly hesitant, before finally making up his mind.

"Harvey... I quit."

"What? Oh... hahaha, what is it? An upset stomach? No worries, it gets easier after a few times."

"I'm serious, Mr. Speck"

"Wait... you're serious? What's wrong? The real world doesn't match what you learned in Rome at the Vatican?"

"No, this isn't about the Galilee Society, the Hunter Syndicate, or a contract from the Camrilla or Sabbat. According to the 1967 Kindred Rights Convention, what you just did was murder."

"That truce between the Synapses, Holy See, and the Ventrue? It's a joke. You don't take it seriously, do you? See! this is the difference between reality and textbooks."

"By rights, I should report your actions to the Society. But I won't, as long as you never contact me again. Goodbye, sir."

"You sure?"

"Yes, very sure."

He straightens his skinny chest, trying to make his threat sound more imposing, but Harvey just finds it amusing... amusing and annoying. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, Harvey waves his hand dismissively.

"Then get out of here. Go back to your ivory tower."

Surprisingly, he does just that—turns on his heel and heads down the stairs without so much as a backward glance. Harvey frowns. Damn brat, who does he think he is? He flicks the cigarette towards the corner of the wall, staring at the door his assistant disappeared through. If he can't handle the way things are really done, he can run back to Rome's red houses.

But... now he needs to find a new assistant.

...

Melbourne, Australia. The sky is overcast, and rain is imminent. The tram's bell echoes through the air, the laughter of kookaburras and the calls of magpies drowned out by the wind blowing down Collins Street. It's unusual to have such gloomy weather in November, but if August felt like spring, why shouldn't November resemble winter?

Outside the Louis XVI-style Hall of the Regent Theatre, passersby rush to and from. Inside, the final performance of Hamilton is taking place, though the marquee still displays a poster for Wicked.

Across from the theatre, in a French restaurant, two people—a young and an old—sit across from each other, only two cups of coffee between them. One appears to be asking a question, while the younger one replies, resigned.

"The waitress is left-handed and has wealthy friends. The man sitting across the street weighs 97 kilograms and knows how to protect himself. There are six cars outside, their license plates are..."

"Alright, alright! That's enough. I've heard enough."

The older man waves his hand, looking at the young man—or rather, boy—sitting across from him. He's wearing glasses to hide a youthful face, a gray T-shirt under a St. Andrews High School varsity jacket. Considering the timing, he must have just finished his VCE exams.

"Do you finally believe in my abilities?"

The boy asks.

"Believe in what?"

The man retorts.

"Heh, take a look at what's inside this."

The boy places a USB drive on the table and pushes it towards the man, who raises an eyebrow.

"It seems you are indeed better than we thought. You found the connection between her and me?"

"I know more than you think. You hired me to find Sarah Evans, but you two met during my investigation, watching my progress from the shadows. So, you weren't really looking for Evans, were you? It was someone else. I guess you scoured the whole city after you landed, just to find that person."

The boy adjusts his glasses, crosses his arms, and scans the room, searching for the figure he's been tracking for a month.

"I don't think Evans is inside the theatre watching a musical at all. She's somewhere around here."

The man smiles and snaps his fingers in the air.

"You're good. Very good."

He says, as a woman with high cheekbones, carrying a bag, steps out from behind the boy. They lock eyes, and she gives him an approving smile. She pulls up a chair and sits at the table.

"Hello, Ethan Jeremiah Mugridge."

"Hello, Ms. Evans. I imagine your husband in Singapore must be quite curious why you're here, no?"

They shake hands, and the woman nods with a smile, surprised that he managed to uncover even that.

"Oh, he doesn't care about my work."

The man sits up, and Ms. Evans understands he's getting down to business. He pulls a flesh-toned folder from his pocket and tosses it in front of Ethan. Inside is a single photograph of a young girl, taken from a distance.

"Listen, kid, we know about your grandmother's condition. I also know the hospital has to transfer her to a full-time care ward, and the fees are twenty-five thousand dollars."

Ethan frowns, swallowing hard, and touches the bridge of his nose.

"Looks like you've done your own research."

"Yes, I've already deposited the promised two thousand dollars into your account. Find the girl in the photo, and I'll cover the remaining fees."

"I need more information. Without it, I can't guarantee—"

"No, it's us who can't guarantee we'll find her, which is why we need you."

He studies the picture, lost in thought. After a moment, he looks up.

"One month."

"Then we'll wait for your good news..."