As the last beams of sunlight began to slip away into darkness, Hollywood and the majority of its inhabitants were just waking up - both mortal and otherwise. Alexander Vereshchagin’s eyes opened slowly, blinking several times; irises dilating slightly as they adjusted to the dim lighting of his ‘bedroom’, if the room could be called that: it was a massive, rectangular room above a warehouse, thickly insulated and with only a single, small window - over which a heavy metal shutter had been pulled to keep out the bright light of the day. 

The room was complete with cream-coloured wallpaper and wooden floorboards, and several propaganda posters - relics from the soviet union, along with a massive flag which dominated one wall: the flag of the now-fallen USSR. The floorboards happened to creak subtly underfoot whenever they were walked across: one of Alex’s many security measures, implemented by the Kindred himself because of his paranoid nature. He rose from his perch - a large, well-cushioned couch - with a yawn, stretching his arms out behind his head; cracking his knuckles as he tilted his head slowly from side to side. 

The upper story of the warehouse, one of Alex’s many safe houses throughout LA, was sparsely furnished: containing only a rarely-used bed, a desk, and a large couch with a coffee table in front of it, on which sat his closed macbook. There was a massive flat screen TV taking up much of the wall facing the couch, which itself was sitting in the middle of the room - if he’d put it up against a wall, he would have been able to see the TV, but the kine whom he occasionally brought back would likely have been confused, as he had learned through experience. 

He made his way over to the king-sized bed, eyes scanning over the clothes that he had set out across it: picking out a white t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and some canvas shoes. The Russian quickly got changed, sitting on the bed with a soft grunt as he did up his laces. Rising to his feet, he shrugged on a leather jacket which he wore near-constantly, running his calloused fingertips across the rough, stubble-covered surface of his cheek. 

Alexander threw one last glance around the room, ignoring the gnawing feeling which he was beginning to experience as the result of his hunger: making his way over to the coffee table and picking up his smartphone, shoving it into his back pocket. He also paused to open one of the table’s drawers, revealing roughly three handguns of different makes, along with ammunition for each of them. The Russian’s fingertips closed around the grip of a Makarov pistol, which he had brought back with him from one of his trips back to his motherland - a 1971 version, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, covered by his shirt and the hem of his heavy leather jacket - along with about three clips: he’d need them tonight, from what his kine had been telling him. 

He saw himself as a shepherd, of sorts: the leader of his coterie, a woman whom he had only ever known as Eva, had given him the task of coming to control the Russian element of organised crime in LA. Alexander had set to the task with gusto, quickly coming to control the Russian Mob through his influence over its leaders, and several of its most prominent and successful members: over whom he had exercised his skills of persuasion, and where that had failed, he had used mind control - a skill taught to him by his Brujah sire and mentor. Alex was protective of his ‘flock’, as he had come to call the Mobsters under his control when he was talking of them to other Kindred, and was almost unreasonably possessive of these Russian men and women - the majority of whom had originally emigrated from the USSR. 

He approached the only entrance and exit to the large room - save for the window, which was made from bulletproof glass (not that it would help if anyone that could cause Alex any [i]real[/i] harm wanted to get inside). It was a large, thick door made from oakwood - reinforced with bolts of steel. Turning the handle, he swung the heavy door open with ease; stepping outside and locking it behind him with a key that was attached to his belt. 

Alex found himself on top of a flight of metal stairs that led down to a mostly-empty parking lot: the beauty of the night sky above him invisible to the mortal eye because of the light pollution of Hollywood, and the larger area of LA itself - it was very, [i]very[/i] built up, and extremely developed: a world and a half away from the Russian City of Petrograd in which the man had grown up. He barely remembered his homeland, but he felt a warm feeling in his heart everytime he thought of his childhood, and the family who’s faces he had long since forgotten. 

The man descended the steps, shoes tapping lightly upon the metal plates as he made his way down to the parking lot - unhooking a set of car keys from the loops of his jeans, index finger pressing down upon the ‘unlock’ button; a loud beeping sound and the flashing of headlights responding to his action - coming from the chassis of a beautiful and well-looked after Audi S8. He opened the door to the car, sliding into the leather drivers’ seat and placing the key in the ignition, turning it with a grin as the expensive vehicle roared into life. “Beauty,” He mumbled to himself in Russian, pulling out of the car park and starting to make his way down town. 

As he drove, he used his car’s bluetooth to phone one of the mobsters whom he controlled, speaking in rapid Russian: quickly gaining the information he needed; a group of Irish gangsters had been trying to encroach upon Russian-controlled territory, and had apparently started shifting heroin in one of the areas which Alexander’s men controlled. Despite his kine’s assurances that he and his men could take care of the problem - which sounded almost frantic in their intensity - Alex told him that he’d take care of it himself: it had been a while since he’d gotten his hands dirty, and he had a desire to shed blood tonight. 

[center]An Hour Later[/center]

“Aye, an’ then I said to ‘im - ‘you fookin’ Russian prick, you can go back an’ tell your boss that the paddies own this place now’, an’ the coont did jus’ that - not a word out of ‘im, ‘ee fucked off! I was expectin’ a fight, or somethin’ - seems the Russians here ain’ -real- Russians, just pansies! So I shot ‘im in the back of the head, y’know - didn’ want him runnin’ an’ gettin’ ‘is friends onto me..” Laughter, along with the ramblings of several Irishmen continued to meet Alexander’s ears, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. Killing his kine? He’d make sure [i]that[/i] one suffered, for that. 

The men were standing in a loose circle in an otherwise-deserted alleyway, lit only by the dim light from a singular, flickering lamp post a few metres away from them, at the beginning of the dead-end alley. Although they had no idea of his presence, Alexander had been watching the paddies from his position on top of a liquor store which was situated next to the alley for about fifteen minutes, making sure that they were the men he wanted: he didn’t want to kill just [i]anyone[/i]. 

But, any doubts that he might have had had vanished, replaced by anger - fueled by his near obsessively protective nature for those that he considered ‘his’ - that the mortals beneath him had [i]dared[/i] to touch a hair on his kine’s heads. Deciding that now was about as good a time as any, he pushed his earphones into his ears: pressing ‘play’ on the touchscreen on his phone, a classic Russian symphony beginning to play as he jumped from his position on the roof down onto the cobblestones below, landing with a dull ‘thud’ - which was masked by the sound of far-off bass music, coming from one of LA’s many clubs. 

He gradually rose from his crouched position, eyes slightly illuminated in the dim light of the alleyway: deliberately making his appearance known to the gangsters in a slow and intimidating fashion. It took a moment or two, but eventually one of them realised his presence - a shout of surprise leaving his lips as he saw a pair of dead-looking eyes staring at him, unblinkingly, from over his friend’s shoulder. “Jesus, Mary and Jose-,” He started, but was stopped mid-sentence with a bullet to the throat: fired from the muzzle of Alexander’s makarov. 

His friends immediately stopped in their joking, staring in shock as the Kindred’s first victim fell to the ground with a loud thud, squirting blood from a gaping hole in his neck. Alex watched the men’s reactions almost as if they were in slow motion, eyes flicking between each of their faces: analysing if they were going to try to fight him, or if they were going to run away. Fight or flight. If they were wise, they’d run - not that it would help them anyway. 

The first man to turn was obviously used to seeing violence, not that it didn’t make him angry: he was furious, and it was written all over his face. Alexander allowed the man to draw his gun, even allowed him to take aim with it - before he, too, received a bullet: this time to the chest. A yell of pain accompanied the Irishman’s subsequent fall from grace, the remaining three men looking between each other with uncertainty.

They were quite certainly yelling in their panic, but Alex didn’t hear them - all he heard was the sound of the music playing loudly in his ears, masking their shrieks and yells. Although he knew how to read lips, he didn’t bother: the pleading of mortals bored him, and the sight of blood had him hungering for more. 

One of the Irishmen’s spirits broke, then, and he decided to make a run for it: attempting to [i]pass[/i] Alex in the process. “Big mistake,” The Kindred murmured in his deep voice, the Russian coming from his lips as easily as English. With a blur of speed that was almost invisible to the human eye, he was suddenly beside the fleeing gangster - a fist that could well have been a steel bar slamming into his stomach, winding him and breaking at least three of his ribs. He fell to the ground, too - incapacitated for now. The sound of crashing cymbals and increasingly intensifying violin-playing filled the Russian Vampire’s ears, as his victims thrashed about on the ground at his feet. 

While he’d been dealing with his friend, one of the two remaining mobsters had drawn his gun - and fired it in the direction of Alex’s chest. The bullet impacted with the Kindred’s flesh, a grunt leaving his lips as he staggered back a few steps - his right earphone falling out of his ear. Suddenly, he was exposed to the [i]true[/i] sounds that had been created as a result of his playtime: the screaming of dying men, the gradually receding ringing sound of a bullet being fired, and the frantic yelling of two men who were raised in Ireland: a country full of superstitions, and not all of them completely made up. 

He looked relieved when Alex staggered back, and even a few drops of blood began to dribble from his wound: but he didn’t fall to the ground, and he [i]certainly[/i] didn’t look like the bullet had hurt him. Alex stayed on his feet, simply.. staring at the two remaining mortals. 

“You fookin’ demon!” The man screeched, the familiar sound of his voice registering with the Kindred’s now-exposed eardrum: marking the man who had just fired his weapon as the man who had been bragging about shooting Russian mobsters. “Demon?” Alexander smirked, another blur of superhuman speed and the dim lighting of the alleyway causing him to look as if he had just teleported to the side of the other Irishman who had not yet drawn his gun; snapping his neck with ease, as if he had just been pulling apart a toothpick. It made the same sort of noise, at least. 

The remaining man’s face turned pale as he struggled to come to terms with what he had just witnessed: a loud “fook this!” coming from his lips as he turned and sprinted away, towards the only entrance and exit of the alleyway: and Alex let him go. For a moment, at least. 

Then, there he was - in front of him, a hand taking a rough hold of his jacket - eyes staring into the human’s own, almost as if he was hypnotizing him. Soon enough - within a few seconds - the fear in the Irishman’s eyes subsided, replaced by a sort of.. blank obedience. Without having even said a word, Alexander had taken over the man’s mind - which hadn’t been too hard, because of all the drugs he’d been abusing. 

Leaving the scene of carnage behind him, Alexander made his way back to his audi, which was parked a few blocks away. He got back into the drivers’ seat, the Irishman climbing into the back without complaint. A grin upon his lips, and blood splattered all over his clothing, Alex turned the key in the ignition - driving off, back towards the main ‘home’ of his coterie - Eva’s mansion in Malibu. He was sure she wouldn’t mind that he was bringing a guest back with him.