Representing_Tromba
Sleep deprived mess of an author begging for feedb
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random stuff
- Thread starter greyblob
- Start date
Representing_Tromba
Sleep deprived mess of an author begging for feedb
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2020
- Messages
- 5,986
- Points
- 233
NotaNuffian
This does spark joy.
- Joined
- Nov 26, 2019
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Shame that it's not loaded.
Cipiteca396
Monarch of Despair 🐉🌺🪽🌊🪶🌑🐦🔥🌈
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Tempokai
The Overworked One
- Joined
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TRIPLE bedtime story because I accidentally backlogged:
Concord:
Born in the fires of Firewalk, molded with iron-clad dreams.
A shooter of space, promised to rival the gods of gaming—
Destiny and Apex, juggernauts who ruled the skies.
But lo, hubris, that cruel mistress, did guide their hand.
For who could match such titans with empty promises
And heroes no mortal could name?
From the grand temples of PlayStation, banners flew high.
"Join us," they cried, "aboard the Northstar, and conquer the stars!"
Yet upon launch, empty were the halls of Concord’s servers.
Seven hundred warriors, no more, marched to their digital graves.
The battlefield, once expected to overflow with the clash of guns,
Lay desolate—untouched by the hand of eager gamers.
Not a soul cared to fight, for the fight was hollow,
A pale echo of legends past.
In their hubris, the gods of Firewalk dared not listen,
But struck back with venomous tongues.
"Talentless freaks," roared Freegunner, the dev,
Brandishing his keyboard like Achilles' spear,
Shunning the very souls who dared mock his failed work.
Thus did Concord’s ruin take root in the soil of pride,
Turning disdain into a force far mightier than love.
Alas, even Sony—once king of consoles,
Famed for single-player glories and mighty realms—
Did stumble at this fallen gate.
Two weeks they gave to the dream,
Before it was unceremoniously torn asunder.
The gods of PlayStation spoke, their words cold as winter:
"Refunds for all, and silence henceforth."
Thus ended Concord, not with a bang, but with a whimper.
The warriors of Steam, all seven hundred,
Fled, forsaking the empty Northstar for fields of greener games.
The fire that once burned bright in Firewalk's hearth
Smoldered, cold and gray, as hope was dashed
On the rocks of ambition unmet.
Refunds flowed like Lethe’s river,
Drowning the cries of those who sought only to battle.
Even the developers, once proud in their might,
Were scattered to the winds, nameless in defeat.
O Muse, tell the tale to future generations,
That they may learn from Concord’s fall.
Let no hubris lead them into the pit,
Where forgotten dreams lie buried with broken pixels.
For in the land of live-service, there are no kings—
Only those who win the hearts of mortals,
And those who fall, nameless, into the void.
Aesop:
The Perverted Odyssey:
a realm of endless pleasures, where mortals sought solace
in scrolls of inked passion, behind darkened doors,
safe from the judging eyes of society's cruel gaze.
But fate, that relentless weaver of misfortune,
cast its shadow upon this paradise, and lo, it fell,
not by sword or fire, but by the hands of laws unseen,
those laws of the net, woven tighter than chains.
Behold the hallowed name of ExHentai,
"Sad Panda" its sigil, a beast of mournful guise,
known only to those daring to seek treasures forbidden.
Many a hero dared to cross its gates, armed
with naught but their will and desires,
and there, in the dark archives, found what they sought:
the art, the stories, the fantasies that none dared to speak.
But in a blink, faster than the sharpest blade,
ExHentai was no more, lost to the ether,
its doors forever barred by the cold grip of law.
no lightning from Olympus, no plague from Poseidon's waves.
Nay, it was but the ceaseless storm of bureaucracy,
the eternal tempest of copyright,
of regulations tight as the knots of the Fates themselves.
Hath not the people cried for freedom,
for sanctuary from the watchful eyes of Zeus—
or perhaps worse, Google?
Yet, in their wisdom, blind and deaf,
the mighty bureaucrats in their silver towers
cast down the hammer, cold and hard as iron.
"Cease!" they cried, from their thrones of glass.
"Thou who peddle in images most lewd,
most base, most vile in the eyes of our lofty codes.
No longer shall ye hide behind your Panda of Sorrow,
for we have seen, and we shall act."
Thus spake the faceless lords of the web,
and their words echoed through the ether,
a decree of doom.
their digital spirits torn from the living realm.
No more could the weary wanderer enter,
no more could the curious soul explore the labyrinth
of pixels and inked dreams,
where warriors and lovers danced in eternal stillness.
The gates were sealed, the archives locked tight,
not with chains of steel, but with codes unbreakable,
brought down by none other than its creator,
Hathor, the keeper of this mighty temple.
Hathor, in all his might and wisdom,
bound not by hubris, but by the very laws
that governed his creation,
stood before the people and wept.
"Forgive me, ye wanderers," he cried,
"for the Panda has fallen, and I, too, must fall with it.
The forces beyond my grasp have spoken,
and though my heart aches to leave thee so,
I am bound by laws written not by gods,
but by the cruel hands of men."
heroes of old, whose names once graced
the halls of this sacred archive.
From lands far and wide they came,
the artists, the collectors, the dreamers and scribes,
their voices lifted in sorrow, their hearts heavy with grief.
"Oh, ExHentai!" they cried, "wherefore have ye gone?
Who shall now shelter our deepest desires,
our fantasies inked and whispered in the dead of night?"
No more could they seek refuge in its pages,
no more could they share in the bounties
of treasures both bizarre and beautiful.
The loss was great, for the land of the lewd
was not merely a place of pleasure,
but a bastion of art, of the strange,
a testament to the human spirit's boundless imagination.
But now, that spirit lay crushed beneath the heel
of a world too afraid of what it could not control.
there were whispers, faint and flickering like candlelight.
"Fear not, fellow travelers," some murmured.
"For where one gate is closed, another shall open.
The net is wide and deep, and though the Panda sleeps,
its spirit shall rise again, perhaps in forms unknown,
in places unseen by mortal eyes."
And so, the heroes scattered,
some in search of new lands, new havens,
where their passions might once again find a home.
Others stayed, defiant, waiting for the day
when ExHentai might rise from the ashes
like some digital Phoenix,
reborn in glory, freed from the chains of law.
But even as they waited, they knew:
the world would never be the same.
The fall of ExHentai was more than the closing
of a single site—it was the loss of a refuge,
a sanctuary for the strange and the unseen,
a place where the human spirit's darkest corners
could be explored without fear.
And in that loss, the web itself was diminished,
its vastness made a little smaller, a little colder.
a tale not of heroes and gods,
but of mortal men and their endless quest
to seek, to explore, to create without bounds.
Its fall was not a grand tragedy,
but a quiet, insidious loss,
one that spoke not of destiny,
but of the fragile balance between freedom and control.
But fear not, O wanderers,
for as long as the memory of ExHentai lives,
so too shall its spirit endure.
In the hidden corners of the net,
in the whispered tales of those who remember,
its legacy shall remain—a testament
to the endless, irrepressible creativity
of the human soul,
and the inevitable clash between dreamers and the laws
that would bind them.
And thus, we sing its final refrain:
Farewell, O Panda of Sorrow,
for though your gates are shut,
your story shall be told in epic verse,
etched forever in the annals of time.
Concord:
The Fall of Concord
Sing, O Muse, of Concord, Sony’s ill-fated child,Born in the fires of Firewalk, molded with iron-clad dreams.
A shooter of space, promised to rival the gods of gaming—
Destiny and Apex, juggernauts who ruled the skies.
But lo, hubris, that cruel mistress, did guide their hand.
For who could match such titans with empty promises
And heroes no mortal could name?
From the grand temples of PlayStation, banners flew high.
"Join us," they cried, "aboard the Northstar, and conquer the stars!"
Yet upon launch, empty were the halls of Concord’s servers.
Seven hundred warriors, no more, marched to their digital graves.
The battlefield, once expected to overflow with the clash of guns,
Lay desolate—untouched by the hand of eager gamers.
Not a soul cared to fight, for the fight was hollow,
A pale echo of legends past.
In their hubris, the gods of Firewalk dared not listen,
But struck back with venomous tongues.
"Talentless freaks," roared Freegunner, the dev,
Brandishing his keyboard like Achilles' spear,
Shunning the very souls who dared mock his failed work.
Thus did Concord’s ruin take root in the soil of pride,
Turning disdain into a force far mightier than love.
Alas, even Sony—once king of consoles,
Famed for single-player glories and mighty realms—
Did stumble at this fallen gate.
Two weeks they gave to the dream,
Before it was unceremoniously torn asunder.
The gods of PlayStation spoke, their words cold as winter:
"Refunds for all, and silence henceforth."
Thus ended Concord, not with a bang, but with a whimper.
The warriors of Steam, all seven hundred,
Fled, forsaking the empty Northstar for fields of greener games.
The fire that once burned bright in Firewalk's hearth
Smoldered, cold and gray, as hope was dashed
On the rocks of ambition unmet.
Refunds flowed like Lethe’s river,
Drowning the cries of those who sought only to battle.
Even the developers, once proud in their might,
Were scattered to the winds, nameless in defeat.
O Muse, tell the tale to future generations,
That they may learn from Concord’s fall.
Let no hubris lead them into the pit,
Where forgotten dreams lie buried with broken pixels.
For in the land of live-service, there are no kings—
Only those who win the hearts of mortals,
And those who fall, nameless, into the void.
Once upon a time in the whimsically distorted meadow of Utter Delusion—where reality bent like a particularly limp carrot—there lived a Purple Bunny. This bunny wasn’t just purple in color; no, it was purple in spirit, in delusion, and in its ever-inflated sense of self-importance. It considered itself the Picasso of fun and games, the Aristotle of amusement, the Zeus of... you get the picture.
One day, while nibbling on the finest organic lettuce (because, of course, it had standards), Purple Bunny had an idea. “I shall create the greatest game ever invented!” it declared to the sky, as if anyone cared. “A game so spectacular, so intricate, so... purple, that all the bunnies in the meadow will worship me for my genius.”
Thus, Purple Bunny labored day and night (but mostly day, because it needed its beauty sleep) crafting a game. It was called Hop Till You Drop and Then Memorize a Poem While Spinning on One Leg, Followed by Interpretive Dance and Mental Gymnastics. A true masterpiece of convoluted nonsense.
When the game was finally complete, Purple Bunny hopped to the meadow’s center, where the other bunnies were minding their own business, enjoying their simple games of “Chase the Tail” and “Guess Who Stole the Carrot.”
“Gather round, you uncultured, grayscale peasants!” Purple Bunny cried. “Behold, the game that will redefine your miserable lives!”
The other bunnies—brown, white, and a few oddly speckled ones—ambled over, slightly curious but mostly concerned about their lunch being interrupted. Purple Bunny explained the rules, which took approximately three hours, two flow charts, and a power nap to get through.
“So, who wants to play?” Purple Bunny asked, eyes gleaming with an expectation of immediate applause and eternal praise.
The normal bunnies stared blankly. One yawned. Another sneezed. One brave bunny raised a paw. “Uh, no offense, Purple, but... this sounds awful. We kinda just like hopping around and chewing on stuff. You know, bunny things.”
Purple Bunny’s smile faltered, its pride bruising like a particularly sensitive tomato. “Excuse me? You don’t get it, do you? My game is for the intellectual elite! For those with... taste! You’re all just too simple-minded!”
The other bunnies shrugged and returned to their frolics, disinterested. But Purple Bunny wasn’t having it. “You’re all idiots!” it screeched, fur puffing out in indignation. “Lazy, tasteless, incompetent fools! You wouldn’t know a good game if it hopped up and bit you on your floppy ears!”
This went on for days. Purple Bunny ranted and raved, growing more self-righteous by the second. It accused every bunny in the meadow of being ungrateful, of lacking vision, of being downright bad at life. The other bunnies, as rabbits tend to do, just ignored it, figuring it would either calm down or get carried away by an owl. Either outcome was fine by them.
But then, one day, an old, sage bunny—known throughout the meadow simply as Sage Bunny, because creativity isn’t always a strong suit—hopped over to the scene. Sage Bunny had seen enough. It had tolerated Purple Bunny’s nonsense for longer than its aged, floppy ears could bear.
Without a word, Sage Bunny hopped up to Purple Bunny and, with a swift and mercifully solid thwack, smacked it on the head with its paw.
“Ow!” Purple Bunny cried. “What was that for, you decrepit pile of fur?”
Sage Bunny said nothing, simply pointing toward the nearby well, its dark, echoing depths somehow offering more wisdom than any rabbit could.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Purple Bunny protested, suddenly realizing it was being escorted—quite forcefully—toward the well’s edge. “You can’t be serious! What is this, some kind of punishment?”
Sage Bunny, ever the laconic figure of silent judgment, nodded solemnly. Then, with one final push, Purple Bunny tumbled into the well.
Splash.
Purple Bunny floundered in the water, sputtering and indignant. “Is this how you treat genius? How you respect a visionary?”
Sage Bunny peered over the edge, squinting at the pitiful creature. “You think because you made something, everyone else is obligated to love it. But here’s the thing, little purple puffball: just because something makes sense to you doesn’t mean it’s any good. If no one wants to play, maybe the problem isn’t everyone else. Maybe it’s you.”
With that, Sage Bunny hopped away, leaving Purple Bunny to stew in the well, literally and metaphorically.
Days passed. Weeks. Purple Bunny, left alone to ponder its fate, began to reflect. Maybe—just maybe—Sage Bunny had a point. Perhaps crafting a game purely for its own amusement wasn’t the brilliant move it had once believed. Perhaps yelling at others for not enjoying it was a touch... melodramatic.
Eventually, Purple Bunny climbed out of the well, soggy but enlightened. It returned to the meadow, where the other bunnies were still hopping and chewing, as they always had.
“Hey,” Purple Bunny mumbled, ears flattened in humility. “Mind if I join in?”
One of the bunnies, mid-hop, paused and grinned. “Only if you promise not to make us play your stupid game.”
Purple Bunny sighed but nodded. “Deal.”
And from that day on, Purple Bunny learned to embrace the joy of simple things, hopping with the other bunnies in peaceful contentment, never again insisting that its game was the best. Well, at least not out loud.
Moral of the story: If no one wants to play your game, maybe it’s not because they’re bad at it—maybe your game just sucks.
One day, while nibbling on the finest organic lettuce (because, of course, it had standards), Purple Bunny had an idea. “I shall create the greatest game ever invented!” it declared to the sky, as if anyone cared. “A game so spectacular, so intricate, so... purple, that all the bunnies in the meadow will worship me for my genius.”
Thus, Purple Bunny labored day and night (but mostly day, because it needed its beauty sleep) crafting a game. It was called Hop Till You Drop and Then Memorize a Poem While Spinning on One Leg, Followed by Interpretive Dance and Mental Gymnastics. A true masterpiece of convoluted nonsense.
When the game was finally complete, Purple Bunny hopped to the meadow’s center, where the other bunnies were minding their own business, enjoying their simple games of “Chase the Tail” and “Guess Who Stole the Carrot.”
“Gather round, you uncultured, grayscale peasants!” Purple Bunny cried. “Behold, the game that will redefine your miserable lives!”
The other bunnies—brown, white, and a few oddly speckled ones—ambled over, slightly curious but mostly concerned about their lunch being interrupted. Purple Bunny explained the rules, which took approximately three hours, two flow charts, and a power nap to get through.
“So, who wants to play?” Purple Bunny asked, eyes gleaming with an expectation of immediate applause and eternal praise.
The normal bunnies stared blankly. One yawned. Another sneezed. One brave bunny raised a paw. “Uh, no offense, Purple, but... this sounds awful. We kinda just like hopping around and chewing on stuff. You know, bunny things.”
Purple Bunny’s smile faltered, its pride bruising like a particularly sensitive tomato. “Excuse me? You don’t get it, do you? My game is for the intellectual elite! For those with... taste! You’re all just too simple-minded!”
The other bunnies shrugged and returned to their frolics, disinterested. But Purple Bunny wasn’t having it. “You’re all idiots!” it screeched, fur puffing out in indignation. “Lazy, tasteless, incompetent fools! You wouldn’t know a good game if it hopped up and bit you on your floppy ears!”
This went on for days. Purple Bunny ranted and raved, growing more self-righteous by the second. It accused every bunny in the meadow of being ungrateful, of lacking vision, of being downright bad at life. The other bunnies, as rabbits tend to do, just ignored it, figuring it would either calm down or get carried away by an owl. Either outcome was fine by them.
But then, one day, an old, sage bunny—known throughout the meadow simply as Sage Bunny, because creativity isn’t always a strong suit—hopped over to the scene. Sage Bunny had seen enough. It had tolerated Purple Bunny’s nonsense for longer than its aged, floppy ears could bear.
Without a word, Sage Bunny hopped up to Purple Bunny and, with a swift and mercifully solid thwack, smacked it on the head with its paw.
“Ow!” Purple Bunny cried. “What was that for, you decrepit pile of fur?”
Sage Bunny said nothing, simply pointing toward the nearby well, its dark, echoing depths somehow offering more wisdom than any rabbit could.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Purple Bunny protested, suddenly realizing it was being escorted—quite forcefully—toward the well’s edge. “You can’t be serious! What is this, some kind of punishment?”
Sage Bunny, ever the laconic figure of silent judgment, nodded solemnly. Then, with one final push, Purple Bunny tumbled into the well.
Splash.
Purple Bunny floundered in the water, sputtering and indignant. “Is this how you treat genius? How you respect a visionary?”
Sage Bunny peered over the edge, squinting at the pitiful creature. “You think because you made something, everyone else is obligated to love it. But here’s the thing, little purple puffball: just because something makes sense to you doesn’t mean it’s any good. If no one wants to play, maybe the problem isn’t everyone else. Maybe it’s you.”
With that, Sage Bunny hopped away, leaving Purple Bunny to stew in the well, literally and metaphorically.
Days passed. Weeks. Purple Bunny, left alone to ponder its fate, began to reflect. Maybe—just maybe—Sage Bunny had a point. Perhaps crafting a game purely for its own amusement wasn’t the brilliant move it had once believed. Perhaps yelling at others for not enjoying it was a touch... melodramatic.
Eventually, Purple Bunny climbed out of the well, soggy but enlightened. It returned to the meadow, where the other bunnies were still hopping and chewing, as they always had.
“Hey,” Purple Bunny mumbled, ears flattened in humility. “Mind if I join in?”
One of the bunnies, mid-hop, paused and grinned. “Only if you promise not to make us play your stupid game.”
Purple Bunny sighed but nodded. “Deal.”
And from that day on, Purple Bunny learned to embrace the joy of simple things, hopping with the other bunnies in peaceful contentment, never again insisting that its game was the best. Well, at least not out loud.
Moral of the story: If no one wants to play your game, maybe it’s not because they’re bad at it—maybe your game just sucks.
The Epic of the Exiled Paradise: The Fall of ExHentai
Book I: The Shattered Gates
Sing, O Muse, of the great site ExHentai,a realm of endless pleasures, where mortals sought solace
in scrolls of inked passion, behind darkened doors,
safe from the judging eyes of society's cruel gaze.
But fate, that relentless weaver of misfortune,
cast its shadow upon this paradise, and lo, it fell,
not by sword or fire, but by the hands of laws unseen,
those laws of the net, woven tighter than chains.
Behold the hallowed name of ExHentai,
"Sad Panda" its sigil, a beast of mournful guise,
known only to those daring to seek treasures forbidden.
Many a hero dared to cross its gates, armed
with naught but their will and desires,
and there, in the dark archives, found what they sought:
the art, the stories, the fantasies that none dared to speak.
But in a blink, faster than the sharpest blade,
ExHentai was no more, lost to the ether,
its doors forever barred by the cold grip of law.
Book II: The Gathering Storm
It was not the wrath of the gods that brought the fall,no lightning from Olympus, no plague from Poseidon's waves.
Nay, it was but the ceaseless storm of bureaucracy,
the eternal tempest of copyright,
of regulations tight as the knots of the Fates themselves.
Hath not the people cried for freedom,
for sanctuary from the watchful eyes of Zeus—
or perhaps worse, Google?
Yet, in their wisdom, blind and deaf,
the mighty bureaucrats in their silver towers
cast down the hammer, cold and hard as iron.
"Cease!" they cried, from their thrones of glass.
"Thou who peddle in images most lewd,
most base, most vile in the eyes of our lofty codes.
No longer shall ye hide behind your Panda of Sorrow,
for we have seen, and we shall act."
Thus spake the faceless lords of the web,
and their words echoed through the ether,
a decree of doom.
Book III: The Fall of the Archive
In the cold winds of July, the servers groaned,their digital spirits torn from the living realm.
No more could the weary wanderer enter,
no more could the curious soul explore the labyrinth
of pixels and inked dreams,
where warriors and lovers danced in eternal stillness.
The gates were sealed, the archives locked tight,
not with chains of steel, but with codes unbreakable,
brought down by none other than its creator,
Hathor, the keeper of this mighty temple.
Hathor, in all his might and wisdom,
bound not by hubris, but by the very laws
that governed his creation,
stood before the people and wept.
"Forgive me, ye wanderers," he cried,
"for the Panda has fallen, and I, too, must fall with it.
The forces beyond my grasp have spoken,
and though my heart aches to leave thee so,
I am bound by laws written not by gods,
but by the cruel hands of men."
Book IV: The Heroes' Lament
Then rose the wails of a thousand souls,heroes of old, whose names once graced
the halls of this sacred archive.
From lands far and wide they came,
the artists, the collectors, the dreamers and scribes,
their voices lifted in sorrow, their hearts heavy with grief.
"Oh, ExHentai!" they cried, "wherefore have ye gone?
Who shall now shelter our deepest desires,
our fantasies inked and whispered in the dead of night?"
No more could they seek refuge in its pages,
no more could they share in the bounties
of treasures both bizarre and beautiful.
The loss was great, for the land of the lewd
was not merely a place of pleasure,
but a bastion of art, of the strange,
a testament to the human spirit's boundless imagination.
But now, that spirit lay crushed beneath the heel
of a world too afraid of what it could not control.
Book V: The Rise of the New Dawn
Yet even in the face of despair,there were whispers, faint and flickering like candlelight.
"Fear not, fellow travelers," some murmured.
"For where one gate is closed, another shall open.
The net is wide and deep, and though the Panda sleeps,
its spirit shall rise again, perhaps in forms unknown,
in places unseen by mortal eyes."
And so, the heroes scattered,
some in search of new lands, new havens,
where their passions might once again find a home.
Others stayed, defiant, waiting for the day
when ExHentai might rise from the ashes
like some digital Phoenix,
reborn in glory, freed from the chains of law.
But even as they waited, they knew:
the world would never be the same.
The fall of ExHentai was more than the closing
of a single site—it was the loss of a refuge,
a sanctuary for the strange and the unseen,
a place where the human spirit's darkest corners
could be explored without fear.
And in that loss, the web itself was diminished,
its vastness made a little smaller, a little colder.
Epilogue: The Eternal Memory
Thus ends the tale of ExHentai,a tale not of heroes and gods,
but of mortal men and their endless quest
to seek, to explore, to create without bounds.
Its fall was not a grand tragedy,
but a quiet, insidious loss,
one that spoke not of destiny,
but of the fragile balance between freedom and control.
But fear not, O wanderers,
for as long as the memory of ExHentai lives,
so too shall its spirit endure.
In the hidden corners of the net,
in the whispered tales of those who remember,
its legacy shall remain—a testament
to the endless, irrepressible creativity
of the human soul,
and the inevitable clash between dreamers and the laws
that would bind them.
And thus, we sing its final refrain:
Farewell, O Panda of Sorrow,
for though your gates are shut,
your story shall be told in epic verse,
etched forever in the annals of time.
NotaNuffian
This does spark joy.
- Joined
- Nov 26, 2019
- Messages
- 5,300
- Points
- 233
Tempokai
The Overworked One
- Joined
- Nov 16, 2021
- Messages
- 1,396
- Points
- 153
A bedtime story about vampires and MC energies:
It was late. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale glow over the quiet streets as Ichiro’s truck hummed softly beneath him. The cargo tonight was simple, nothing too special—just blood packs from a nearby hospital. His instructions were clear: deliver them to a mansion on the outskirts of Kobe. A routine job, or so it seemed.
He didn’t think much of it as he drove through the winding roads, the truck’s headlights cutting through the mist that seemed to cling to the landscape the closer he got to his destination. Ichiro glanced at the digital clock on his dashboard. 1:47 AM. Almost there.
The mansion loomed ahead, its towering iron gates creaking open as if they had been expecting him. He pulled up the long driveway, the truck’s tires crunching softly over the gravel, before coming to a stop. For a moment, he sat there in the driver's seat, looking up at the dark, gothic structure. The windows were all but black, save for a faint light flickering from somewhere deep within.
He wasn’t one for drama, but something about the place gave him an odd feeling. It was the kind of building you’d expect to see in an old horror film—lonely, imposing, timeless.
But a job was a job.
With a quiet sigh, Ichiro reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed the small cooler holding the blood packs. He pushed open the door, stepping out into the chilly night air. The wind was still, almost unnaturally so, and the only sound was the soft rustle of his shoes against the gravel.
The door to the mansion opened before he could even knock. A tall, slender figure stood in the doorway, draped in a long, flowing black robe that swayed as if caught in an invisible breeze. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the dim light, and his eyes—strikingly crimson—locked onto Ichiro with an intensity that would’ve unnerved most people.
But Ichiro didn’t flinch. He had seen worse things in his dreams.
“Yamashita Ichiro, I presume?” the man’s voice was smooth, almost melodic, but there was a cold edge to it. His lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, looking at Ichiro's badge on the uniform.
Ichiro gave a small nod. “Yes. I’m here with the delivery.” He lifted the cooler slightly to indicate its contents. “Blood packs, as requested.”
The vampire’s eyes flicked to the cooler in Ichiro’s hand, and for a moment, a strange tension hung between them. Something unspoken. The air felt heavier, as though the very presence of the creature was bending reality around him.
“Good,” the vampire said, his voice soft but sharp. He stepped aside, gesturing for Ichiro to enter. “Please, bring them in.”
Ichiro hesitated for only a second before stepping through the threshold. Inside, the mansion was every bit as grand as the outside suggested—dark wood, ornate chandeliers, tapestries that looked older than Ichiro could guess. But there was something cold, lifeless, about the place. Like it had been untouched by time, yet devoid of warmth.
He followed the vampire down a long, winding corridor. The silence between them was thick, but Ichiro wasn’t the type to fill it with idle chatter. He wasn’t sure how long they walked, but eventually, they reached a large room, dimly lit by candles that cast long shadows on the walls. A single table stood in the center, empty, save for a simple silver tray.
“You may set the cooler there,” the vampire instructed, motioning to the tray.
Ichiro did as he was told, placing the cooler down with a quiet thud. He opened the lid and began to take out the blood packs, arranging them neatly on the tray. The vampire watched him closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as Ichiro worked.
Once the last blood pack was placed on the tray, Ichiro stepped back, waiting for further instructions.
But instead of a word of thanks, the vampire just stood there, his crimson eyes studying Ichiro with a strange intensity. His smile had faded, replaced by something darker—an emotion Ichiro couldn’t quite place.
“You’re not…afraid, are you?” the vampire finally asked, his voice low, almost curious.
Ichiro blinked. “Should I be?”
The vampire’s expression flickered for a moment, as if caught off guard by the calm response. “Most would be.” There was a hint of frustration in his voice now. “A mortal standing before me, delivering blood, knowing full well what I am. It’s…humiliating.”
Ichiro shrugged slightly, his face impassive. “I’m just doing my job.”
The vampire’s eyes flashed, a dangerous glint passing through them. For a moment, the air between them thickened, as though something far more primal was at play. The vampire took a step forward, his robe brushing the floor as he moved. His pale hand reached out, fingers brushing against one of the blood packs as if testing its weight.
“You’re…different,” the vampire said quietly, more to himself than to Ichiro. “There’s something about you that’s…off. I don’t sense the usual fear.”
Ichiro shifted his weight, his eyes meeting the vampire’s without flinching. “I don’t see a reason to be scared. Like I said, I’m just here to deliver the blood.”
For a moment, the vampire said nothing, his hand lingering on the blood pack, his face twisted in a mixture of frustration and confusion. Ichiro couldn’t quite understand what was happening, but it seemed as though the vampire had expected something more—some kind of fear, some acknowledgment of his power. But instead, all he got was a delivery driver who didn’t seem fazed at all.
The silence stretched on until, finally, the vampire let out a low, bitter laugh. “I see. I’ve been…disgraced.”
Ichiro frowned slightly, not quite sure what to make of that statement. But he didn’t press. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a clipboard. “If you could just sign here to confirm the delivery, I’ll be on my way.”
The vampire’s eyes flicked to the clipboard, and for a moment, he looked at it as if it were some foreign object. Then, with a resigned sigh, he took the pen from Ichiro’s hand and scrawled his signature across the paper.
“There,” the vampire said, his voice flat. “The delivery is complete.”
Ichiro nodded, tucking the clipboard back into his pocket. “Thank you. Have a good night.”
Without another word, he turned and made his way back down the long corridor, the weight of the vampire’s gaze following him the entire way. But Ichiro didn’t look back. He had done his job, just like any other night.
As he stepped out into the cold night air and climbed back into his truck, Ichiro glanced at the mansion one last time. The lights inside were already fading, swallowed up by the darkness.
He shook his head slightly, more bemused than anything else, and started the engine.
“Strange guy,” Ichiro muttered under his breath, pulling out of the driveway and heading back towards the city.
Another delivery done. Another night passed. Nothing more, nothing less.
But for the vampire standing alone in that grand, empty mansion, something had shifted. He stared at the blood packs on the tray, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
He had lost something tonight—something far more important than a simple delivery.
His pride.
He didn’t think much of it as he drove through the winding roads, the truck’s headlights cutting through the mist that seemed to cling to the landscape the closer he got to his destination. Ichiro glanced at the digital clock on his dashboard. 1:47 AM. Almost there.
The mansion loomed ahead, its towering iron gates creaking open as if they had been expecting him. He pulled up the long driveway, the truck’s tires crunching softly over the gravel, before coming to a stop. For a moment, he sat there in the driver's seat, looking up at the dark, gothic structure. The windows were all but black, save for a faint light flickering from somewhere deep within.
He wasn’t one for drama, but something about the place gave him an odd feeling. It was the kind of building you’d expect to see in an old horror film—lonely, imposing, timeless.
But a job was a job.
With a quiet sigh, Ichiro reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed the small cooler holding the blood packs. He pushed open the door, stepping out into the chilly night air. The wind was still, almost unnaturally so, and the only sound was the soft rustle of his shoes against the gravel.
The door to the mansion opened before he could even knock. A tall, slender figure stood in the doorway, draped in a long, flowing black robe that swayed as if caught in an invisible breeze. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the dim light, and his eyes—strikingly crimson—locked onto Ichiro with an intensity that would’ve unnerved most people.
But Ichiro didn’t flinch. He had seen worse things in his dreams.
“Yamashita Ichiro, I presume?” the man’s voice was smooth, almost melodic, but there was a cold edge to it. His lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, looking at Ichiro's badge on the uniform.
Ichiro gave a small nod. “Yes. I’m here with the delivery.” He lifted the cooler slightly to indicate its contents. “Blood packs, as requested.”
The vampire’s eyes flicked to the cooler in Ichiro’s hand, and for a moment, a strange tension hung between them. Something unspoken. The air felt heavier, as though the very presence of the creature was bending reality around him.
“Good,” the vampire said, his voice soft but sharp. He stepped aside, gesturing for Ichiro to enter. “Please, bring them in.”
Ichiro hesitated for only a second before stepping through the threshold. Inside, the mansion was every bit as grand as the outside suggested—dark wood, ornate chandeliers, tapestries that looked older than Ichiro could guess. But there was something cold, lifeless, about the place. Like it had been untouched by time, yet devoid of warmth.
He followed the vampire down a long, winding corridor. The silence between them was thick, but Ichiro wasn’t the type to fill it with idle chatter. He wasn’t sure how long they walked, but eventually, they reached a large room, dimly lit by candles that cast long shadows on the walls. A single table stood in the center, empty, save for a simple silver tray.
“You may set the cooler there,” the vampire instructed, motioning to the tray.
Ichiro did as he was told, placing the cooler down with a quiet thud. He opened the lid and began to take out the blood packs, arranging them neatly on the tray. The vampire watched him closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as Ichiro worked.
Once the last blood pack was placed on the tray, Ichiro stepped back, waiting for further instructions.
But instead of a word of thanks, the vampire just stood there, his crimson eyes studying Ichiro with a strange intensity. His smile had faded, replaced by something darker—an emotion Ichiro couldn’t quite place.
“You’re not…afraid, are you?” the vampire finally asked, his voice low, almost curious.
Ichiro blinked. “Should I be?”
The vampire’s expression flickered for a moment, as if caught off guard by the calm response. “Most would be.” There was a hint of frustration in his voice now. “A mortal standing before me, delivering blood, knowing full well what I am. It’s…humiliating.”
Ichiro shrugged slightly, his face impassive. “I’m just doing my job.”
The vampire’s eyes flashed, a dangerous glint passing through them. For a moment, the air between them thickened, as though something far more primal was at play. The vampire took a step forward, his robe brushing the floor as he moved. His pale hand reached out, fingers brushing against one of the blood packs as if testing its weight.
“You’re…different,” the vampire said quietly, more to himself than to Ichiro. “There’s something about you that’s…off. I don’t sense the usual fear.”
Ichiro shifted his weight, his eyes meeting the vampire’s without flinching. “I don’t see a reason to be scared. Like I said, I’m just here to deliver the blood.”
For a moment, the vampire said nothing, his hand lingering on the blood pack, his face twisted in a mixture of frustration and confusion. Ichiro couldn’t quite understand what was happening, but it seemed as though the vampire had expected something more—some kind of fear, some acknowledgment of his power. But instead, all he got was a delivery driver who didn’t seem fazed at all.
The silence stretched on until, finally, the vampire let out a low, bitter laugh. “I see. I’ve been…disgraced.”
Ichiro frowned slightly, not quite sure what to make of that statement. But he didn’t press. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a clipboard. “If you could just sign here to confirm the delivery, I’ll be on my way.”
The vampire’s eyes flicked to the clipboard, and for a moment, he looked at it as if it were some foreign object. Then, with a resigned sigh, he took the pen from Ichiro’s hand and scrawled his signature across the paper.
“There,” the vampire said, his voice flat. “The delivery is complete.”
Ichiro nodded, tucking the clipboard back into his pocket. “Thank you. Have a good night.”
Without another word, he turned and made his way back down the long corridor, the weight of the vampire’s gaze following him the entire way. But Ichiro didn’t look back. He had done his job, just like any other night.
As he stepped out into the cold night air and climbed back into his truck, Ichiro glanced at the mansion one last time. The lights inside were already fading, swallowed up by the darkness.
He shook his head slightly, more bemused than anything else, and started the engine.
“Strange guy,” Ichiro muttered under his breath, pulling out of the driveway and heading back towards the city.
Another delivery done. Another night passed. Nothing more, nothing less.
But for the vampire standing alone in that grand, empty mansion, something had shifted. He stared at the blood packs on the tray, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
He had lost something tonight—something far more important than a simple delivery.
His pride.
Cipiteca396
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