Part Four

The Hollowing Hills, 800 kilometers from Vatican City

Mathew slid his key into the lock and stepped inside his home. As the door creaked open, a shadow moved in the dim light. A man sat calmly on the

couch, his silhouette sharp against the faint glow from the streetlight outside.

"Hey, Mathew," the shadow spoke, his voice low and familiar.

Mathew didn't flinch. He shut the door behind him, hung his coat on the rack, and turned toward the voice. "Hey,

Oliver. I was wondering when you'd show up."

Oliver didn't respond with words. Instead, he reached into his coat and tossed a dagger onto the coffee table between them. Its blade gleamed faintly, etched with strange, glowing

runes.

"I need your help," Oliver said simply.

A short while later, they sat at Mathew's kitchen table, steaming cups of coffee in hand. The enchanted dagger lay

between them, ominous and silent.

"Who were the thugs?" Mathew asked, breaking the silence.

"No idea," Oliver replied, taking a sip of his coffee. "Probably just some unlucky idiots who bit off more than they could chew."

Mathew leaned back in his chair, watching Oliver carefully. "So what do you want me to do?"

Oliver locked eyes with him, his expression grave. "I want you to find the person who sold them that dagger."

Mathew hesitated. He owed Oliver nothing-not after what the man had

done to his own family. And yet, here he

was.

"Alright," Mathew said finally, his voice tinged with reluctance.

Oliver knew he wasn't sincere. "Look, man. I was your best friend once. I've made mistakes-big ones-but you're the only person I can trust now. And you've got a nose for this kind of thing."

Mathew chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Don't worry, it's all in the past. Come on, let's get you patched up." He stood and headed toward the door, but Oliver raised a hand to stop him.

"No, really, I'll be fine-"

"Nonsense," Mathew interrupted. "What will your wife think if she sees you like this? Let's go."

The two men walked down the quiet streets to the healer's home. As they walked, they spoke like old friends, sharing stories and laughs. For a moment, it almost felt like old times.

When they reached the house, Mathew knocked on the door. A young girl

opened it, her piercing gaze fixing on Oliver. Despite her small stature, she carried herself with the composure of someone far older.

"Well, well," she said, a smile curling her lips. "Mr. Count Dracula. I've heard plenty about you, but I never thought I'd actually meet you."

Oliver stiffened. "That's not who I am," he snapped, his voice sharp.

The girl's smile didn't waver. "Of course. If that's what you'd like to believe."

The tension grew thick until Mathew clapped his hands together. "Alright, alright. Let's focus, shall we? Can you help him?"

The girl studied Oliver for a moment, her eyes unblinking. Then, in a voice that sent chills down Mathew's spine, she said, "I'll help...for now. But later, he'll need a lot more than my help."

The healing session began. The girl instructed Oliver to lie on a worn sofa and close his eyes. As she worked, a strange warmth filled the room, and Mathew found himself drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The healing session began. The girl instructed Oliver to lie on a worn sofa and close his eyes. As she worked, a strange warmth filled the room, and Mathew found himself drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke, he was back at his own home.

"Let's hope she's not angry," he muttered, fumbling with his keys. But as he approached the door, he froze. The knob was broken, the door slightly ajar.

His pulse quickened as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. His house was in shambles-furniture overturned, blood smeared across the walls.

"Evelyn?" he called out, panic rising in his chest.

In the living room, he found her. His

wife lay crumpled on the floor, her body bloodied and broken. She was still alive, but barely.

Oliver dropped to his knees, cradling her in his arms. Tears streamed down his face as he begged her to stay with him.

"He...he has the kids..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Where? Where are they?" he pleaded.

She pointed weakly toward the stairs before her arm fell limp.

"No, no, no!" Oliver sobbed, holding her close as her life slipped away. He placed her gently on the ground, wiping his tears. Then, grabbing the bloodied knife from her hand, he bolted upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, he found his daughter, Riley, slumped against the wall. Blood stained her small frame, and her breaths came in shallow gasps.

"Baby girl," he whispered, kneeling beside her. "Don't worry. I'll get you out of here. I'll—”

She shook her head weakly and pointed toward a door. "Save...Sammy," she whispered. Then her hand fell limp, and she was gone.

Oliver's heart shattered. But he didn't have time to grieve. He wiped his tears, steeling himself, and pushed open the door.

Inside, he found his worst nightmare.

A grotesque, hulking monster crouched over his young son, tearing into the boy limb by limb. The crunch of breaking bones echoed in the room, each sound ripping Oliver's soul apart.

With a roar of rage and despair, he charged. The monster barely had time to react before Oliver tackled it, driving it through the window to the ground below.

He stabbed the creature over and over, blood splattering his face and hands. He didn't stop until the monster lay still, its body limp and lifeless.

Panting, Oliver rolled the corpse over -and froze.

The monster's face wasn't a stranger's. It was his own.

Oliver fell to his knees, staring at his reflection in the creature's lifeless eyes. A broken sob escaped his lips as the knife clattered to the ground.

"No...no..." he whispered, his voice trembling.

But deep down, he already knew the truth.

He was the monster.

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