The city glowed brightly that night under the light of the full moon. The streets within the dead zone were empty and lifeless, and the only sound came from the clinking of a tin can rolling in the breeze down the cracked pavement. Quinlan found himself walking freely and uncaringly down the middle of the wide, desolate road. His hood was pulled low over his head, hiding his face in the shadows, with only his eyes piercing through the darkness as the light from the moon refracted off their ice-blue surface. He was in an area that had once been an industrial part of the city, full of old factories and warehouses that now lay hollow and abandoned. He arrived outside a small brick building wedged in between two large warehouses. This building had no windows; just a small, solid metal door on the wall facing the street.

Quinlan walked up to the door and banged his fist on it twice; the metal rattled loudly. After a moment, a narrow panel on the door slid open and dark eyes stared at Quinlan from inside. Then the panel closed, and Quinlan could hear the first lock being opened, and then the second lock. The door opened halfway and a large African-American man with a shaved head and tattoos on his face peered out. Before the man could say anything, Quinlan put one hand against the door and pushed it wide open, forcing the man to step back as he let himself in. The large man said nothing and stepped aside respectfully as Quinlan marched past him, walking with heavy strides through the hallway and down the stairs descending into the basement. The large man followed behind him. The stairway was dark and narrow, and the claustrophobic feeling was further enhanced by the walls painted black. There were two flights of stairs that bent around in an L shape, and at the bottom of the stairs was a large room that had once been an underground nightclub. The room was still set up like a nightclub, with the bar on the side, pool tables in the centre, and lounge suites at the back. There were even a few bottles of alcohol on the shelves behind the bar. The place looked ragged and unkempt, but considering the type of neighbourhood this had been, the nightclub might not have looked too different back when it was alive.

A young man wearing a knit cap sat hunched over the bar with his head hung down low and a glass of liquor in front of him. He glanced up at Quinlan from the corner of his eye and then looked down again. Another man stood at the pool table assembling an AK-47 while smoking a cigarette, with parts of the weapon spread across the table. Several other men were standing around the room, but no one said a word to each other or to Quinlan. There was a tension in the silence and the looks on the men's faces were sombre.

Quinlan threw the hood off his head and revealed his predatory glare as it scanned the room. "Where are the rest of the men?" The intensity in his tone was almost a hiss.

"We lost three of 'em last night." A young Mexican man with a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck walked across from the other side of the room. The way he looked, he could easily have been mistaken for someone from one of the street gangs, and he quite possibly was in the past. As he approached Quinlan, he postured like a tough and hardened man, but there was a certain boyishness about him, and a certain kindness in his eyes behind his rough exterior.

A slight scowl spread across Quinlan's face as his eyes grew even more intense; he was clearly unimpressed with the situation. He counted the men – there were nine of them; the group had started with twenty. As Quinlan's eyes glanced over each men, he noticed one man sitting on the lounge suite in the back of the room, pale and shivering, with tiny beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. His eyes were weak and almost closing, but as Quinlan looked at him, his eyes locked with Quinlan's and they suddenly widened with fear.

Quinlan started to walk towards the man, but the young Mexican quickly stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "Quinlan…"

Before he could say anything, Quinlan firmly pushed the young man aside and continued to march towards the man on the couch. The man sat up straighter and tried to look strong, but he was clearly very sick.

"Show it to me." Quinlan commanded, standing over the man.

"It's just a fever, man. It's this fucking cold…" His weak voice trembled. "Come on Gus, tell him... tell him it's just a fever." He looked at Gus, the young Mexican man, whose eyes fluttered down as he lowered his head and remained silent.

Quinlan leaned over and grabbed the collar of the man's jacket, ripping it to the side. It revealed the skin on his neck with a large, festering wound. At the centre of the wound were two puncture holes, with dark and raised veins spreading from the wound like roots spreading from a tree. As Quinlan's eyes fell upon this sight, the look of anger in his face faded just enough to reveal a slight sadness in his eyes.

"Quinlan," the sick man whispered, shaking his head. "Please…"

Quinlan looked into the man's pleading eyes; he could tell he desperately wanted to live; he was not ready for this fate. For a brief second, the look in Quinlan's eyes told the man, I'm sorry. But the look quickly faded as a vicious expression formed on Quinlan's face, and without hesitation, he stepped back and unsheathed his sword.

"No don't! Quinlan, pl…"

The sword was fast and swift, and the man's head rolled onto the ground with a thud. Nobody moved or said a word. Quinlan himself was still for a moment, before sheathing his sword and then turning around with a ferocious fire burning in his eyes.

"You," he pointed at Gus. "Augustin Elizalde; you're in charge now."

Gus nodded, looking up at Quinlan for a moment before finding it uncomfortable to lock his gaze, and lowered his head again.

"You brought him back with you even though he was infected. Do not let it happen again," Quinlan scolded as he looked at each of the eight men in the room.

Many heads lowered in guilt, their expressions all despondent.

"This is war we can't win," Gus muttered, shaking his head.

"And you won't win if you don't fight." Quinlan paced around the room, looking the men up and down. "I have word that there are hordes of Strigoi moving in through the tunnels. If we don't stop them, they will soon be on our doorsteps." Quinlan's gaze shifted to a beautifully crafted hunting knife sitting on top of the bar. He picked it up and held it in front of him, admiring its beauty, before carefully placing it back down. His gaze shifted to Gus. "We move in three days. Be ready."

And with that, Quinlan turned around and disappeared up the stairs.

Opening the door to the outside, a gust of cold air swept across Quinlan's face; it carried the smell of the sea. Quinlan looked up at the bright light of the moon and closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply and with that breath came a single thought that entered his mind; that thought was a name – Nathan Sullivan. It was the name of the man he had just killed; no, not killed - freed. He was one of the first Quinlan trained; a young man who Quinlan sculpted with his own hands into a fine warrior. But this warrior's battle ends tonight. His name will not be forgotten. Quinlan opened his eyes.

Outside, the black car waited. Quinlan walked towards it, but before getting in, he took a long look at the dark and dismal building behind him, where inside his warriors waited out their numbered days. Then he finally sat into the car, looking out the window.

"[Where to?]" The girl asked.

"The research facility."

The car drove off quietly into the night.