Heavy snow blanketed Gotham's East End in November, turning the already bleak streets into a cold, suffocating wasteland. This part of the city had always been the worst—poverty clung to every building, and crime seeped from every alley like rot. Drugs changed hands in the shadows, murders happened without witnesses, and no one expected help to arrive when things went wrong.
On Wallier Street, one of the few pockets that still clung to a fragile sense of order, a small bar prepared to close for the night. The lights were dim, and the last of the customers had already left, leaving behind the scent of alcohol and faint traces of conversation that had long since faded.
Emily stood behind the counter, carefully putting away glasses and wiping down tables. Her delicate face, pale and soft like porcelain, was etched with exhaustion, and her movements carried the weight of someone who had been holding everything together for far too long. Even so, there was a quiet determination in her eyes that refused to break.
A towering man approached her from behind, his frame broad and imposing, nearly two meters tall. His presence alone could intimidate most people, but his expression softened as he looked at the young woman.
"Have you thought about it?" he asked, his voice low but firm.
Emily didn't hesitate. She straightened slightly, gripping the edge of the counter as if anchoring herself.
"Uncle Jodson, I'm not selling the bar," she said, her tone steady despite the fatigue. "It's the only thing my father left me, and I'm not giving it up."
Jodson let out a slow breath, his brows knitting together as concern flickered across his face. "Michus raised a strong daughter," he muttered, shaking his head. "If anything happens, call me. No matter what, your father was my brother."
"Thank you, Uncle Jodson," Emily replied softly, offering him a faint smile.
The moment of calm shattered instantly.
A deafening crash exploded through the bar as the glass door burst inward, shards flying across the floor. Stones followed, hurled from outside with reckless force, clattering against walls and furniture. The sudden violence turned the quiet space into chaos.
Jodson reacted immediately, stepping in front of Emily and raising his arms to shield her from the incoming debris. His face darkened with fury as he planted himself firmly between her and the attack, his massive frame absorbing the danger without hesitation.
Outside, the roar of engines cut through the night.
A pack of motorcycles sped past the bar, their riders laughing wildly. Their hair was dyed in garish colors, their faces twisted with exaggerated mockery as they glanced through the shattered entrance. Their eyes gleamed with a kind of madness that thrived in Gotham's darkness, and their laughter lingered long after they disappeared down the street.
"Damn punks," Jodson growled, his fists tightening as he reached for his phone.
Emily quickly stepped forward and grabbed his arm, stopping him before he could act. "Uncle Jodson, it's just broken glass," she said gently, though her voice trembled slightly. "I can clean it up."
He hesitated, clearly unwilling to let it go, but the determination in her eyes forced him to pause. After a long moment, he sighed heavily.
"Emily…" he started, but the words fell short.
"Please go home," she insisted quietly. "Wallier Street isn't safe at night."
The faint chime of the doorbell rang as he finally turned and left, his broad back seeming lonelier than before. Emily watched him go, her vision blurring as tears welled up in her eyes. She swallowed them down, refusing to let them fall.
No matter how hard things became, she couldn't drag him into it. Whatever trouble was coming, it was hers to face.
She picked up a mop and began cleaning the shattered glass, focusing on the task to steady her nerves. The bar was silent again, but the tension lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.
Then came a slow, deliberate knock.
Emily froze, her entire body tensing as she turned toward the door. Fear flickered across her face, but she forced herself to take a cautious step forward.
The door creaked open.
A young man in a black trench coat stumbled inside, his movements unsteady. He barely made it two steps before collapsing onto the floor.
Emily's eyes widened in shock, and she rushed forward without hesitation.
"Mr. Locke?"
She knelt beside him, quickly helping him sit up. His hair was disheveled, partially covering his eyes, but even in his current state, his sharp features were hard to miss. There was a quiet intensity about him, something that set him apart from the chaos of Gotham.
"Miss Emily…" Locke's voice was strained, carrying a hint of embarrassment. "Can I stay here tonight?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, her gaze flicked over him, taking in the dirt, the bruises, and the fresh wound at the corner of his eye. Without a word, she stood up and hurried to the back room.
Moments later, she returned with a thick fur coat and a small medical kit. She draped the coat over his shoulders, then carefully dabbed disinfectant onto his injury.
This wasn't the first time.
Locke watched her quietly, his thoughts drifting as he studied her face up close. Her blue eyes were clear and untainted, a stark contrast to the corruption that defined this city. In a place like Gotham, someone like her shouldn't exist—and yet, she did.
A good person, he thought.
"Alright," Emily said firmly after finishing, meeting his gaze. "I don't need to know what happened. You just need to rest."
"Thank you," Locke replied, his voice softer now.
She hesitated for a moment before adding, "You should really find a stable job. Living like this isn't sustainable."
Locke looked at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Are you hiring?"
Emily's expression faltered. She lowered her head slightly, forcing a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"I'm sorry… I might have to close the bar soon."
Locke's gaze sharpened as he noticed the subtle glimmer of moisture in her eyes. He glanced around the bar, taking in the details he had long grown familiar with.
The place was small but well-maintained, equipped with more care than most establishments in this area. Safety notices were posted on the walls—warnings about drugged drinks, reminders to stay cautious. It was different from the rest of East End, and that difference was exactly why it thrived.
It was also why it had become a target.
"Motorcycle gang?" he asked quietly.
Emily shook her head, dismissing it with a gentle smile. "Thank you, but it's nothing you need to worry about."
She didn't know his past, didn't know why he had appeared on Wallier Street three months ago and kept coming back. But she knew enough to trust him.
After all, she had seen what he did.
When a drunk man had caused trouble in the bar, Locke had stepped in without hesitation, taking him down with a swift and precise combination of strikes. He hadn't asked for anything in return, hadn't even stayed for thanks. That kind of thing didn't happen in Gotham.
Later, she learned he helped people—quietly, without making a name for himself. It was strange, but it was real.
She just wanted him to live safely.
Locke, however, had other thoughts.
Earlier that day, he had already completed his task—dealing with a vagrant who tried to harass a student. On his way here, he ran into the bikers responsible for the attack. Even with his experience, fighting five at once had left him with injuries.
But that fight had triggered something.
A system.
In his mind, an image surfaced—something grotesque and deeply unsettling.
A pale, monstrous head stared back at him, its gray-white skin stretched tight over unnatural features. Scarlet eyes burned with hunger, and a long, tentacle-like tongue extended from its mouth.
The moment he saw it, a chilling sensation crept down his spine.
"Bloodlines…"
The memory clicked instantly. It was that American horror series—one he had watched in his previous life. A plane landing without signs of life, a parasitic outbreak, and a war between humans and creatures that were nothing like traditional vampires.
These things weren't elegant. They were monstrous.
And worst of all, they infected.
Tiny worms, invisible at first, burrowed into the body and turned people into something else entirely. Locke remembered the scenes vividly—the horror of it, the inevitability.
His scalp tingled just thinking about it.
"So this is my system?" he muttered internally, unease creeping in.
Then, a message appeared.
[First dimensional traversal complete.]
[Innate talent activated: Ultimate Evolution Module.]
[Entering special dimensions allows ability extraction.]
[Defeated or incapacitated targets can have their abilities stripped.]
[All extracted abilities will be optimized and purged of negative effects.]
Locke's breathing slowed.
His eyes widened.
Stripping abilities… and removing drawbacks.
The fear that had gripped him moments ago began to fade, replaced by something else entirely. Something sharper. Hungrier.
Opportunity.
He glanced at Emily, still quietly cleaning the shattered glass, her figure small against the broken bar. Then he looked down at his own injuries.
His jaw tightened.
Then he looked back at the horrifying image in his mind.
"…Fine," he thought.
The next instant, the image transformed.
The grotesque face became a doorway, its surface twisting into a dark vortex. The world around him froze—Emily, the falling dust, even the drifting snow outside.
Everything stopped.
Only the door remained.
Locke stepped forward.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
When he opened his eyes again, he was seated in an airplane cabin.
The lights were dim, and silence filled the space. Passengers sat motionless in their seats, their eyes closed as if trapped in an unnatural sleep.
Recognition hit him instantly.
"This is the plane…" he thought, his expression tightening.
A dull sound echoed from the aisle behind him.
Step. Drag. Step.
Something was moving.
Locke clenched his teeth, his mind racing. Of all places to arrive, it had to be here—right at the beginning, right where everything went wrong.
"Are you kidding me?" he cursed internally, forcing himself to stay calm.
His heart pounded against his chest, louder than it had ever been.
Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the aisle.
The sound was getting closer.