[The way Alucard stills at that name is next to impossible to miss; his cool, controlled air does nothing to hide it. Like cold fingers gripping at the back of his neck, sending the crawl of a chill up and down his spine.

So freshly departed from the conflict with his own father, images of that forever seared into memory, to hear the name from a stranger’s lips is jarring. And unprepared for it, to call it literature as written by someone he’s never heard of, is surreal in a way that tilts his world on its axis.]

Dracula. That’s impossible. [The words leave his lips on their own accord.] He was not a literary figure, written by the hand of a stranger. Delegated to… entertainment. He was very real, existing in my own world. Not this one.