A home. This once vibrant hall hosted the upended and rootless. Scrappers and nomads brawled, gambled, and drank without care. Grudges were made and settled, while laughter and cussing resounded through the brick walls in at least thirteen different languages. And all the while, metal and heavy rock (both classic and modern) played so loud, that it shot out through the pipes and furnaces that once belted out coal fumes. Now, that laughter had given way to screams, while the roar and crackling of flames drowned out whatever distorted noise escaped from the toppled speakers.

"I have to get out!" He could see it, this was the end. He watched as those he called brothers and sisters were torn apart by automatic fire and cut to pieces with knives and ancient blades. They left no bones, no remains to inter...only ashes, which were quickly lost amidst the other debris. "I can't be the only one alive."

The lone man, tall and strong, brushed the dust from his usually bright red hair and ran atop the upper levels and scaffolds of his former sanctuary. The smoke blocked his vision, but his endurance remained. The dead did not breathe.

"Holy Shit..." He chuckled to himself, knowing his gallows humor would serve him better than the tears he longed to shed. "How edgy can we get."

His question was answered by the three assault rounds fired into his shoulder. They would have torn the arm off any mortal man, but not a son of clan Brujah.

"The hell was that?! Can't you hit a moving target?" He screamed at the barrage's source, a team of men clad in heavy-duty ballistic vests plastered over business casual rags. They were meters away, and across clear across the other side of the scaffold.

Not that distance was an issue. "What? No fucking retort?!" He channeled the blood into his limbs, their strength uplifted beyond any mortal perfection, and he jumped clear to the other side of the factory. The force of his leap was such, that the scaffold he left behind burst to pieces and scattered to the ground.

"Here's mine!" As his words roared throughout the factory, he planted his feet straight into the lead assassin, before dashing from the now compressed corpse and meeting the survivors. His speed was such that he appeared as a flash of light, and the hapless gunman only managed to aim their weapons before their heads were peeled from their shoulders.

Their killer, this son of Brujah, looked at the viscera staining his naked hands, no longer surprised but always delighted by their strength. Yet this revelry was interrupted by a young woman's voice.

"Lawrence!"

He spun to see who had called his name, towards the solid office and break room that stood just apart from the factory entire. Yet it was not the décor, but the person in that space, which uplifted Lawrence's spirit and tone.

"Jessie? You're Alive!" Lawrence ran to his friend. Jessie was a petite girl, American-born but Filipino in blood and look. As far as clothes, she loved her punk style jeans, black leather half jackets, and fingerless gloves, and wore them even in this blistering heat. But something was wrong. She remained firm in her place and made offered not towards Lawrence's approaching embrace.

"Jessie?" He was confused, worried. Was she scared? Of course, she was.

And yet, there was something else. The young woman's fine black hair did nothing to obscure the dark resolve blocking out her usually warm hazel eyes.

"I'm sorry..." Those words left her lips, even as she thrust her hand forward, and the shadows cast by the dancing flames sprang forth. Open hands and sharpened spikes of inky blackness moved to entangle Lawrence. But his speed, and intuition, were such that he escaped their lethal embrace.

"Why..." Lawrence continued his evasion. He was all too willing to fight for his life, yet the shock of this betrayal kept his aggression in check. "Jessie, why are you doing this?"

Her face was as stone, but the tension in her body told all.

"It was you..." He looked upon his once friend, hurt and despairing. "You lead them to us. You've been a spy this whole time."

"Why!" The words tore from his throat, anger, and pain carrying them throughout the room. "We let you into our home! We took you i-" Lawrence's indignation was cut short by the sound of a gunshot. And he just barely dodged the incoming bullet, as it instead crashed into the distant walls. The brick surface exploded, casting stone shrapnel to tear through the cubicles and desks. "Explosive rounds?" Shocked by this firepower, he turned towards its source. Holding a ludicrously sized handgun, was a tall yet lanky man. He was clad in knockoff designer-ware: a blazer over a white button-down shirt and black slacks. His long fangs ran over his otherwise bright smile, and blood ran from them onto the deep brown skin of his face. "Bad news son, we've been conning you from the start." The man's accent was something ancient and unknown. Yet the barest hints of North African tones and pronunciation shone through, even among the surrounding carnage.

"Ian, you piece of shit." Lawrence glared daggers at this smiling bastard even as he backed away from both him and Jessie. "Did you do the others like this?"

"Only the cute ones." Ian did nothing to hide the malice in his tone, and proudly bore the gleeful smile across his smug face.

But any further sadism on Ian's part was interrupted. "Shut up, Ian." Jessie gripped her fist, and the shadows she still held in rein encircled the distraught Lawrence. This time they were not evaded, and the mighty scion of Brujah was pulled to the ground. "Just put him down, you jerk off, or whatever messed up shit you do later."

"If the lady insists." Ian hefted his weapon towards his prone foe, whose face was firmly planted in the shag carpet.

But Lawrence, bruised as he was, had no intention of dying. "Not here, not while they're still alive." He had just enough strength to lift and then drive his head into the floor. And the strength of this blow was enough to break through the already crumbling floor, sending him tumbling to the ground level.

The fall was of course no danger, and he landed on his feet. "One day...someday..." He wanted to end the traitors right here and right now. But he could hear their support teams encircling him already.

Once more, Lawrence channeled the blood, and his strength and speed were such that he broke through the opposite wall. His clothes were torn, but he was otherwise unscratched.

So, he ran. He didn't even glance at the burning ruins of his home and picked no particular direction in his escape. He tore through the outer fence that separated the industrial district from the rest of the city and prayed that at least one of his safehouses remained hidden.

But this was no act of cowardice. "I know who sent them, and if my "Kindred" were that eager to betray me, then I might as well return the favor." He ran until the city streets were in view, and the city skyline blocked out the stars and pitch-black sky above. Phoenix, a city on the rise for both mortal and vampire. Lawrence had come here with such high hopes, all of which were now burning behind him. Yet still, he refused. 

He would not look at the past, at his losses. Instead, he whispered a quiet vow, almost a prayer. He swore that he would not allow himself to die unless it was to choke on the ashes of all who had wronged him this night. And with that, he entered the building mortal crowd. Many were onlookers, their gazes fixed on the rising smoke. Yet there was an even greater number: those human things that walked by the destructive sight, caring only for their immediate business. And amongst this ignorant and protected majority, Lawrence disappeared.