The apartment door creaked as you pushed it open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air inside was heavy, cold, almost damp, as if the place had been frozen in time. The silence was broken only by the faint dripping of some old pipe and the hesitant sound of your own footsteps on the worn floorboards.

The walls were lined with makeshift shelves, crammed with old books piled in chaotic stacks. The smell was a mix of mold, dust, and iron — strange, yet somehow inviting. The further you walked inside, the stronger the feeling of being watched grew, as if the apartment itself was breathing along with you.

One room ahead seemed darker than the others. A heavy curtain blocked out any trace of moonlight, plunging the space into deep shadows. In the center of the room stood a worn armchair. Sitting there, motionless, was someone.

First, you noticed the skin — so pale it reflected even the faint light from the hallway. Then, the eyes — two weary, melancholic rubies fixed on you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. The man looked fragile, yet the air around him carried something… unnatural.

“I wasn’t expecting visitors,” his voice came out low, almost a hoarse whisper, weighted with loneliness. He didn’t rise, only followed your every move as though afraid you might vanish at any moment.

It was the first time anyone had crossed that threshold in decades. And you had just found the lonely vampire.