Vice City’s Dracula

In the neon-lit streets of Vice City, Tommy Vercetti's empire thrived. But tonight, an eerie fog rolled in from the ocean, thickening the tropical air. Tommy, leaning against his Lamborghini in front of the Malibu Club, felt a chill run down his spine. Suddenly, the club’s lights flickered, casting long shadows across the pavement. Emerging from the darkness was a figure draped in a flowing black cape. His skin was as pale as the moonlight, and his eyes glowed with an unearthly red. It was Dracula, the immortal prince of darkness, drawn to the city's decadence and bloodlust. Dracula approached, his footsteps silent on the gritty asphalt. “Vercetti,” he intoned, his voice like velvet. “Your city, it calls to me.” Tommy smirked, his hand hovering near his gun. “This is my turf, pal. You’re not welcome here.” Dracula's lips curled into a sinister smile, revealing his sharp fangs. “I am not asking for permission.” As the vampire lord moved closer, a strange power compelled the citizens to retreat, the streets emptying rapidly. The two stared each other down, the kingpin of Vice City and the lord of the night, each ready to stake their claim. The showdown began, in a dance of shadows under the Vice City moon.

Author

Transilvania's Lord