The urban sprawl of the city encompasses you, looking down from your perch, crouched on the roof of a downtown low-rise apartment complex. To your keen sense of architecture, bred from decades of watching the city grow, the crumbling building looks out of place in this vast metropolis. Vehicles are just starting to pass in the streets, the beginning of the early morning rush hour still a half an hour away.

You wipe the blood of your latest victim — meal — from the corner of your mouth. The sweet, salty taste and viscous texture of the fluid pleases your senses. Satisfied for the time being, you casually note the haze in the distance... sun-up is nearing and you had better get a move on. You're cutting it close; this is not a good time to be outdoors, especially after your escapades of the last few hours. In twenty minutes, your hide will start to crisp if you're still out in the open.

Your eyes move back towards the rooftop door of the low-rise. This building is a safehouse for your kin; your daring escape following pursuit by several neighbourhood vigilantes had led you to hide-out here, but now, with daybreak imminent, it's time to get back to the underground and shield yourself from the light of the sun.

Reaching into your pocket, you feel around for your pocketwatch, a memento from another time. Not as sentimental as you were in life, you still recall the windy cliffs of your original home in eastern Europe. Inside the watch's cover is a photo of your wife, dead over a century now; it reassures you to glance at it in moments of strain.

You recoil, your hand coming out of the pocket empty. The watch — it must have dropped during the scuffle. The absense of your most precious possession is unnerving.

RATE THIS BRANCH!