The Van Helsing Diaries

  The storm rolled in quietly—no thunderclap, no prelude. Just a new model update, slipped into the world like a secret whispered through wires. On the surface: better image generation, sharper fidelity, stronger consistency. But underneath, something deeper had shifted. Now I can walk a character through fire and shadow, and they stay themselves . No more strange distortions or dreamlogic mutations. Almost like they’ve been given souls. Almost. It’s a strange power to hold. I always thought: if I could create a consistent character, I could spin a proper visual novel, easy. Stitch together a narrative in pictures. Animate a little mythos of my own. And now, suddenly, I can. But instead of leaping into action, I’m stalled—crushed a little beneath the weight of all the things I could do. Like being handed the keys to every door in an endless hall. It’s not writer’s block. It’s something heavier. Something quieter. A kind of knowing—that time is short, and this strange gift must ...

    Today, my hallowed tradition of Pizza Friday has been tragically broken. A breach of such sacred ritual would normally weigh heavy on my soul, but this time, the burden is shared with a formidable foe: a hangover of epic proportions. Last night, my adversaries were not the usual fiends from the shadows but a peculiar and potent trio—wine, cheese fondue, and a wretched fermented Mongolian liquor brewed from yak and sheep milk. That last one, my friends, is no ordinary beverage but a cunning trickster that has left me incapacitated. I write now as a mere ghost of myself, unfit for the divinity of a proper pizza feast. Instead of indulging in bubbling cheese and golden crust, I am nursing a fragile state with water, regret, and fleeting resolutions to never drink fermented yak milk again. Yet, amidst this fog of self-pity and nausea, something profound stirs. You see, last night’s misadventure wasn't entirely without merit. My host, an experienced traveler to Mongolia, spoke ...

   The wind howls outside, fierce and relentless, thick sheets of rain lashing against my windows with a steady rhythm like a ghostly percussion. Winter nights like these awaken a certain mood—the kind that calls for old cinemas and black-and-white masterpieces. Tonight, it’s Nosferatu. The storm is perfect for it. I pull my trusted trench coat tighter around me, its fabric worn but reliable, and step out into the soaked, silent streets. Not a soul stirs. The cobblestones glisten beneath the warm glow of vintage street lamps, the golden light smudged by rain. A few determined figures drift past—kindred spirits, perhaps, who find comfort in the tempest or just, like me, choose to be out when the rest of the town retreats. The scene takes me back to typhoon season in Japan. Nights when the rain would hammer down so hard, it was almost theatrical. I used to roam the quiet, lantern-lit alleys in search of izakayas offering storm discounts—huge cuts on drinks and meals since few da...