Michael
The name on the parchment burned itself into my mind.
Isaac Crowe.
Gabriel still held it in his hands, as if the letters themselves carried a divine answer. Raphael sat on one of the crumbling church benches, dragging his lance slowly across the floor.
"So he's real," I finally said.
Gabriel nodded, but I could tell something was bothering him.
"But was it him who saved us?" Raphael leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Or was it someone else?"
That was the question running through all our minds.
If it was Crowe, why hadn't he revealed himself? Why leave only a name?
And if it wasn't Crowe…
Then we had to ask ourselves who else knew about us.
Gabriel
"We have a real lead now," I said, placing the parchment on the old stone altar.
"And? What do we do with it?" Raphael sounded irritated. "We don't know where he is. Just that he exists. Great help."
Michael took the parchment, running his fingers over the aged paper as if searching for some hidden message.
"This is old," he murmured. "Not just a few years. Maybe decades."
Raphael scoffed. "Fantastic. Maybe we're hunting a dead man."
I stayed silent. I knew Raphael spoke like this when he was frustrated. But he wasn't wrong.
Our lead was old. Too old.
But it was all we had.
Raphael
"I say we go back to where we last had a trace of him."
Gabriel and Michael looked at me.
"Southwark?" Michael asked skeptically.
I shrugged. "Not to the vampires. But to the other rats. Someone has to know why this name is suddenly appearing."
Gabriel sighed, then nodded.
I grinned. "Alright then. Let's break some doors."
Michael
We returned to the narrow streets of London.
But this time, it was different.
I could feel it. The city had changed.
Or maybe we had.
The stares that followed us. The whispers when we passed. The way the darkness seemed to close in around us, as if the shadows themselves wanted to swallow us whole.
London knew we were here.
And it didn't like it.
Gabriel
We entered an old tavern, a hole in the wall that smelled of bad ale and even worse decisions. The innkeeper looked at us as if he already knew who we were.
"Hunters," he murmured.
I leaned against the counter. "We're looking for information."
The innkeeper chuckled. "Everyone's looking for information. But not everyone leaves this place alive."
I held his gaze. "We're not everyone."
His grin widened. "No. You're not."
Then he nodded toward a dark corner.
"But maybe he can help you."
I turned around.
There, in the shadows of the tavern, sat a man in an old coat that smelled of blood and ash.
His hands were steady. His eyes were tired.
And in that moment, I knew:
He knew Isaac Crowe.