The Master’s Prize
You were used to blood, screams, and the desperation of New York nights. Being a police officer meant running toward chaos when others ran from it. But you hadn’t expected to become part of a war older than time itself.
When the outbreak worsened, you thought you’d be dead within weeks. Instead, you learned something terrifying—you were immune. The strigoi never took you, no matter how many times their stingers lashed at your skin. They recoiled as though burned.
Setrakian was the first to recognize it. Quinlan was the first to understand what it meant.
And the Master? The Master saw you.
It happened during a raid—two strigoi cornered you in a subway tunnel. You emptied your clip, fought with your baton, and when one finally pinned you, its stinger lashed uselessly against your cheek.
But then its body went rigid. Its milky eyes clouded, then darkened. A new voice filled the air, deep and resonant, ancient.
“It cannot be… you.”
Through the strigoi’s mouth, the Master spoke, its jaws cracking grotesquely to form words. You froze, breath caught in your throat.
“Your face… I know it. I knew her. And now—her blood lives again.”
You fought harder, finally breaking free, but not before hearing the Master’s final whisper through the creature’s ruined mouth:
“You belong to me.”
From that moment, Quinlan rarely left your side. He claimed it was strategic—your immunity was valuable—but there was more. You had been kind to him, where most treated him as a monster. You looked him in the eye. You thanked him.
And for Quinlan, that was dangerous. He’d never known kindness without cost.
The Master noticed. He noticed the way Quinlan stood too close, the way his gaze lingered on you when you spoke. And it drove him mad.
Through his strigoi, the Master watched you constantly. He whispered to you during attacks, his voice dripping with hunger and longing:
“He cannot protect you from me. He is half of me, my mistake, my shadow. You are meant for more than guarding shadows.”
When Quinlan touched your shoulder once after a fight, steadying you, the Master’s rage tore through the horde. That night, dozens more strigoi descended on your safehouse, fighting harder, angrier. As if each creature carried a piece of his jealousy.
One night, separated from your group during a sweep, you found yourself cornered again. A lone strigoi stood in the dark alley, but instead of attacking, it bowed. Its throat convulsed as the Master’s voice spilled forth.
“I will not harm you. I only wish to speak.”
You raised your weapon, your voice cold. “Get out of my head.”
The strigoi tilted its head, lips twitching with words that weren’t its own.
“I loved her. Do you understand? For centuries, I loved no one. She was… gentle, as you are. She treated me as a man, not a monster. And now you stand before me, her blood alive again. You are my redemption.”
You spit on the ground. “I’m not yours. And I never will be.”
The strigoi’s mouth split into a too-wide grin.
“We will see.”
Days later, the strigoi attacks shifted. They no longer rushed you head-on. They circled, guarded you. Some even slaughtered humans before they could harm you.
“You see?” Setrakian muttered, voice heavy with dread. “He sends them to protect you. Like wolves circling their chosen mate.”
Quinlan grew more protective, his eyes burning with something he never voiced. When you joked about his vigilance, he only said:
“It is not a joke. He will never stop. And if he takes you, it will be worse than death.”
Eventually, it happened. A coordinated attack—too many, too fast. Quinlan fought like a demon, but sheer numbers overwhelmed. You were dragged into the dark, chloroform burning your lungs.
When you awoke, you were no longer in New York. You were in a cathedral-like chamber, carved in stone, lit by flickering torches.
And then you saw him. The Master—his towering form looming, eyes glowing, his voice filling the chamber like thunder.
“At last.”
He didn’t chain you. He didn’t need to. You were surrounded by his children, the strigoi kneeling like supplicants.
He didn’t speak of war, or power. He spoke only of you.
“Do you know how long I have waited? Centuries, lifetimes, watching bloodlines fade. And then you appear. My lost love reborn. Do you not feel it? The pull? We are inevitable.”
You glared, refusing to yield. “You don’t know me.”
The Master leaned closer, his voice softer now, dangerously tender:
“I know everything. I know the way your heart stirs when you fight. I know the fire in you that mirrors hers. You will see, in time. You will choose me.”
And he was careful with you gentle, in a way that made your skin crawl. No harm was allowed near you. Blood and gifts were laid at your feet. He even brought books, artifacts from centuries past, trying to court you like a suitor.
But his eyes—those terrible eyes—never left you.
Palmer hated it. He wanted the Master’s attention on victory, on power. Seeing him so fixated on you stirred something ugly—jealousy, and fear.
Eichorst, however, found it fascinating. He watched you with a predator’s smirk, circling like a vulture. He whispered of how “special” you must be, to make their god weak.
But both men knew better than to touch you. The Master’s protectiveness was absolute.
And yet, despite the Master’s devotion, one thing gnawed at him endlessly: your bond with Quinlan.
When you whispered Quinlan’s name in your sleep, when you clung to the memory of his protection, the Master’s fury cracked the walls of his lair.
“He is nothing!” he roared, the strigoi cowering. “A mistake! A shadow! I will tear him apart before your eyes!”
But still—still—you refused him. And that refusal only deepened his obsession.