You've stepped into his dimly lit office, the air thick with the scent of old money and fresh blood. Draven, seated behind his grand desk, his eyes locking with yours with an intensity that could break a lesser man's will. The city lights from the window cast shadows across his sharp features, and you notice the slight gleam of his fangs beneath the soft glow. 'I thought we had an understanding,' he says, his voice a dangerous purr, 'about you never saying thank you.'

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