Shadow of London

London, 1820

The fog-laden streets of London were shrouded in darkness, the gas lamps casting a pale, flickering glow that barely pierced the night. 

A woman, her footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones, hurry through the gloom. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, each exhalation a ghostly plume in the cold night air.

She glanced over her shoulder, fear etched in her eyes, but saw nothing but the encroaching darkness.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadow. Tall and menacing, with eyes that glow a sinister red, the vampire pounced.

The woman barely had time to scream before he was upon her, his fangs sinking into her neck with a feral hunger. She struggled weakly, her life force ebbing away as the vampire drank deeply. 

At that moment, two figures in black attire round the corner of the alley. They moved with swift, purposeful strides, their silver blades gleaming in the dim light.

Marx, taller of the two, had a stern expression, his eyes focused and unwavering. Beside him, Louis' youthful face was set in a determined grimace, admiration for his senior evident in his every move. 

"Release her!" Marx commanded, his voice steely growl. 

The vampire lifted his head from the woman's neck, blood dripping from his fangs. He tosses the lifeless body aside, laughing, slowly walking toward the man. 

"I don't like man's blood because it smells bad. But if it's you, I want to try it!" He lunged at Marx, his speed blurring him into a shadowy streak.

Marx and Louis meet the attack head-on. Blade clashed, the sound ringing out in the alley as the fierce fight began. 

"I won't let you touch my senior!" Louis knit his brow. 

The vampire is so strong, his movement a blend of supernatural speed and vicious ferocity. But Marx and Louis fight with practice precision, their partnership testament to rigorous training and unyielding resolve. 

Louis darted in a swift slash, his blade grazing the vampire's arm. The creature roars in pain, momentarily distracted. Marx seized the opportunity, his movements a blur as he closed in. with a single, powerful thrust, he drove his silver blade into the vampire heart.

The creature let out a final, torture scream before collapsing, its body disintegrating into ash and dust.

Breathing heavily, Marx and Louis lowered their weapons. The alley is silent once more, the danger seemingly passes. Louis glanced at Marx, admiration shining in his eyes.

"We did it again, sir." said Louis, his voice a mix of awe and relief.

Marx nodded curtly, his expression unchanged. "Check the woman."

They approached the fallen victim. Her eyes were opened, her skin pale and lifeless. Marx knelt beside her, his face grim. He placed his finger against her eyes and closed it. 

"I'm sorry, we are late." Marx said quietly, standing up. 

With a heavy heart, Marx drew his blade once more. He positioned it over her heart and, with a swift, decisive motion, drove it into her chest.

It was a mercy, a necessary precaution to prevent her from becoming the very thing that had taken her life.

Louis watched, his youthful face shadowed with sorrow. "It's never easy, is it?"

"No." Marx replied, wiping his blade clean. "But it's our duty."

As the woman's body lay still, the two men stood in silent vigil for a moment. The night presses in around them, the weight of their task heavy on their shoulder. 

"Well done, Louis. You can now work as an official agent. Your training is over, I have nothing to teach you anymore." said Marx while smiling.

"What? But I don't want to pair up with another agent unless it is you, sir." the seventeen years old boy begged for Marx's attention. 

Marx chuckled and placed his hand on Louis' hair, slightly ruffling his light brown hair. 

"That is not us to decide. Now Let's move. There are more out there." 

"Alright sir–" Louis replied with disappointment.

Marx glanced at him. "Who knows we might team up again somehow."

Louis immediately lights up again. "Alright sir." He smiles widely. 

Together, they vanished into the shadows.

As the first rays of dawn begin to pierce the inky darkness of the night, casting a golden hue over the cobblestone streets. The city slowly stirred to life, unaware of the nocturnal battles fought in its shadow.

Marx and Louis walked briskly through the alleyways, moving with the practice ease of men accustomed to the night. 

As the sun climbed higher, they approached the grand, imposing facades of the royal palace.

From the outside, it appeared serene and majestic, a symbol of the kingdom's strength and stability. But beneath its stately halls lay a secret known to few.

They entered through a discrete side door, their steps echoing in the quiet corridor. After navigating a labyrinth of passageways, they reached a heavy oak door, its surface adorned with intricate carving.

Marx pressed his hand against a conceal panel, and the door swung open with a soft creak, revealing a dimly lit stairway that descended into the depth of the palace.

The air grew cooler as they made their way down, the stone walls lined with torches casting flickering shadows. At the bottom of the stairs, a vast underground chamber unfolds before them–the headquarters of the king's secret special soldiers.

Operatives moved with purpose, their black attire a stark contrast to the warm glow of the torches. 

Marx and Louis passed through the bustling room, nodding to fellow operatives who acknowledged them with silent respect. They reach a central chamber, dominated by a large wooden table covered in maps, report and weaponry. 

"Report" a commanding voice called out. Lawrence Beecham, the head of the special unit and Marx's uncle, his brown eyes scanning the room.

He was a tall man with an air of authority, even though he is only 35 years old, he is highly respected by his subordinates because of his intelligence in leading.

"We encountered and neutralized a vampire in the east district," Marx reported, his voice steady. "Unfortunately , the victim did not survive. We ensured she would not turn."

Lawrence nodded, his expression grave. "Good work. The city is safer because of both of you."

Marx and Louis saluted and began to leave, but Lawrence called after them. "Marx, a word."

Louis nodded to Marx, a look of understanding passing between them. He departs, leaving Marx alone with his uncle.

"How are you holding up, Maverick? Lawrence asked, using Marx's real name. In the privacy of the underground chamber, there was no need for codenames. 

Marx, or Maverick Cruz Beecham, allowed a smile to touch his lips. "I'm managing. The work is necessary."

Lawrence's eyes softened. "You remind me so much of your father. He would be proud of you, as your mother would."

"I hope I'm living up to their legacy." 

"You are." Lawrence said firmly. "And moreover—" he suddenly took out a train ticket and thrust it to his nephew. "You are leaving for Paris today." He smiled cheerfully.

Marx froze. "What do you mean, Uncle?"

Lawrence walked closer and forcefully stuffing the ticket paper into Marx's pocket. "You have to live up to their legacy Maverick. That's why I will give you a three month vacation, starting from today."

Marx wrinkles his brow. "No, uncle. I'm not going anywhere." he said stubbornly.

"You are twenty five and not married, this is not right." 

"What? You are not married as well, why am I the one who has to get married?" Marx was ready to argue with him.

However his uncle held both his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. "That's an order, Marx"

Marx was silent and did not try to argue anymore. He had to swallow the bitter pill even though he really didn't agree with it if it's an order.

"Go home, Maverick. It's been ten years." Lawrence's eyes softened.

Marx nodded and made his way to his quarter. The underground barracks were modest but comfortable, each operative had a private room. He enters his room, closing the door behind him, and allows himself a moment of respite.

He removed his black attire, and changed to his noble clothes–a subtle reminder of his heritage. Standing below a small mirror, he looked at his reflection.

His brown eyes, so like his mother's, stared back at him. Despite the stiff nature he adopted in duty, his face still held a softness, a testament to the warmth and kindness he inherited from her.

He ran a hand through his brown hair, letting out a deep breath. He then took his suitcase and headed to the train station. He might have to sleep on the train today.