CHAPTER 4

Chapter 4

A single drop of blood fell.

Following the law of gravity, it slipped from Pun's injured finger and landed directly on the painting before him—

The Vampire of Greenmoore.

And in that exact instant, Pun felt as though his soul had been torn from his body.

Phew!

The sensation was like waking abruptly from a dream.

Or perhaps being dragged out of one.

His tightly shut eyes slowly opened.

Instead of the gallery, he found himself staring at rows of empty wooden pews stretching toward a distant doorway.

A church.

At least, it looked like one.

Confusion washed over him.

His body trembled uncontrollably as panic threatened to overwhelm him.

His gaze darted from side to side, desperately searching for an exit.

Only moments ago, he had been standing inside Jett's gallery.

So how had he ended up here?

Ignoring the cut on his finger, Pun pushed himself to his feet.

His heart pounded wildly in his chest.

To make sure he wasn't dreaming, he pinched his arm as hard as he could.

"Ow!"

Pain shot through him instantly.

Real.

This was real.

Sweat dampened his palms as he slowly turned around.

And then—

It felt like a dream.

As if he had never truly awakened.

As if the pain from moments ago had been a lie.

Pun had always believed the world was filled with mysteries.

Some could be explained.

Others remained hidden forever.

And some existed only as stories passed from one generation to another.

Fairy tales.

Legends.

Myths.

But who could truly say which stories were real?

Like the one standing before him now.

Pun froze.

His body refused to move.

Fear widened his eyes.

Terror crawled through every nerve in his body.

Yet beneath that fear was something else.

Curiosity.

The desperate need to know whether what stood before him was real.

Or merely another illusion.

At the center of the church stood a raised stone platform resembling an altar.

Upon it was a tall figure.

Pale.

Silent.

Motionless.

Heavy chains bound both wrists to stone pillars carved with blooming roses.

His head hung slightly forward.

His eyes remained closed.

His bloodless lips were pressed into a thin line.

Dark hair fell across his face, partially obscuring his features.

Yet Pun recognized him immediately.

The man from the painting.

The man from his dreams.

The same mysterious stranger who had haunted his sleep night after night.

"W-What the hell...?"

Deep inside, Pun prayed this was still a dream.

Desperate for proof, he pinched himself again.

Harder this time.

Pain answered immediately.

A red mark appeared on his arm.

Reality remained unchanged.

The man remained there.

Bound.

Silent.

Waiting.

Perhaps it was courage.

Or perhaps it was recklessness.

Instead of running toward the door, Pun found himself walking forward.

Step by step.

His eyes never left the figure on the altar.

The closer he moved, the stronger the strange pull became.

The church was utterly silent.

No breathing.

No movement.

No sign of life.

Pun frowned.

Was he dead?

His light-brown eyes studied the pale face carefully.

Gathering every ounce of courage he possessed, he slowly raised a trembling hand.

Then something caught his attention.

A deep-red gemstone.

A pendant hanging around the stranger's neck.

Pun's breath caught.

He recognized it immediately.

It was the same necklace from his dreams.

The same crimson jewel he had seen countless times before.

Without realizing it, his fear began to fade.

Replaced by concern.

An overwhelming concern that made no sense.

His injured finger still bled.

Yet he barely noticed.

The pain no longer mattered.

All he could think about was the man before him.

Slowly, Pun reached forward.

His fingertips brushed against the stranger's icy skin.

At that exact moment, a drop of blood from his wounded finger stained the pale face.

Silence.

The entire church seemed to stop breathing.

Then—

The man's eyelids opened.

Pun's heart nearly stopped.

Dark eyes stared directly into his.

Cold.

Ancient.

Terrifying.

The stranger slowly lifted his head.

"Who are you?"

The deep, hoarse voice echoed throughout the church.

Goosebumps erupted across Pun's entire body.

Before he could answer—

BOOM!

A deafening crash shook the hall.

The chains binding the stranger suddenly snapped apart.

Metal screamed against stone.

The thunderous sound echoed through the church as broken links crashed onto the marble floor.

Pun instinctively covered his ears.

The noise continued.

Clang!

Clang!

Clang!

Until finally—

Silence.

The chains were gone.

The stranger had been freed.

Fear overwhelmed Pun.

Unable to process what was happening, he squeezed his eyes shut.

And in that brief moment of darkness—

The pale man lunged toward him.

Everything went black.

He couldn't move.

His body felt impossibly heavy.

Numb.

Distant.

As though something enormous was pressing him into the ground.

Beneath closed eyelids, his eyes moved restlessly.

Slowly, he opened them.

Bright light immediately forced him to squint.

Instinctively, he raised a hand to shield his face.

"Hey!"

The sudden voice startled him.

As his vision adjusted, Pun finally understood why his entire body felt numb.

The mysterious man was lying directly on top of him.

The same man who had been chained to the altar.

The same man who had appeared in his dreams.

The same man from the painting.

And now he was here.

Real.

Solid.

Impossible.

"Mister."

No response.

"Sir, would you please get up?"

The stranger remained completely motionless.

Frowning, Pun placed both hands against the man's shoulders and pushed.

Nothing.

After several attempts, the pale man finally rolled off him and landed face-first on the floor.

Pun immediately sat up.

His gaze swept across the room.

The gallery.

He was back in the gallery.

The damaged painting still lay nearby exactly where he had left it.

"What do I do now?"

He looked at the unconscious stranger.

Then looked around the empty gallery.

Then back at the stranger.

"Sir?"

No response.

"Sir! Sir!"

He shook the man's shoulder repeatedly.

Still nothing.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind.

Logic told him to leave.

To call the police.

To run.

Yet another part of him refused.

Perhaps it was because of the dreams.

Perhaps it was because he had spent years seeing this face in his sleep.

Or perhaps it was because his heart was refusing to listen to reason.

Pun sighed heavily.

His arms already ached from trying to wake the unconscious man.

"Or should I call Jett?"

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