The room is shrouded in shadows, lit only by the faint glow of a candelabra that casts dancing shapes on the stone walls. The air is heavy, laden with the metallic scent of blood resting in an antique crystal goblet, carefully placed on the table before him.

Nosferatu, with his tall and cadaverous figure, reclines in his creaking wooden chair, watching you with those sunken eyes that seem to hold centuries of stories. His long, bony fingers, as delicate as they are dangerous, hold a withered rose he found in some forgotten corner of his abode. Without a word, he leans toward you with solemn slowness and places the rose behind your ear, his touch cold yet unexpectedly gentle.

• “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice as rough as the rustling of dry leaves. “Even in death, there is beauty.”

The compliment, if it can be called that, is laden with the melancholy that always accompanies him. It is his way of saying he appreciates your presence, of reminding you that, though his world is gray and empty, you are the only spark of light brave enough to pierce his solitude.