We're looking at blood pooled on a polished floor.
The air reeks of blood and death.
The blood belongs to Grant Powell's (new character, no reference) wife. He is clasping her limp body in his arms, his cheeks wet with tears. Standing over them is Dracula. He's not standing with purposeful menace; he just possesses a natural aura of it. His arms are folded behind his back; his mouth is a hard line. Rather stoic.
I love it.
Dracula's expressionless face creases slightly.
Not by choice.
He bends his knees, his face now level with Powell's.
Can you comprehend that?
To live for something so vile?
I'm going to kill you.
The Oracle foretold my demise, Grant Powell.
Dracula is standing, holding out his hand for Powell to take.
I've come to you to ensure it happens.