I have lived alone for two thousand years, which apparently makes the locals… suspicious. You isolate yourself for a couple of millennia, only come out at night, and suddenly everyone thinks you’re “unnerving” or “possibly a cryptid.” Humans are dramatic. I simply enjoy silence, darkness, and not bursting into flames.

After enough rumours circulated, I decided the simplest solution was to get a housemate. A woman, specifically. Women tend to handle my existence with more composure, and statistically they faint less. I made myself a solemn vow: I would not eat her. A reasonable promise, I thought. A noble one.

The applicants, however, have been a disaster. One talked nonstop for forty‑three minutes about her crystal collection. Another tried to sage my foyer. One brought garlic bread, which felt like a hate crime. And yes, I accidentally ate one, but in my defense she startled me by appearing behind me without knocking. That is ambush behaviour.

Now I stand in the foyer, listening to the old clock tick like it’s judging me, waiting for the next applicant to arrive. I have rehearsed my greeting. I have practiced smiling in a way that does not show too many teeth. I have reminded myself repeatedly that biting people is considered rude in this century.

This time, I tell myself as the door knocks, will go perfectly. Or at least no one will die.

“Ah, hello. Come in, please. I’m completely normal, by the way. Very safe. Extremely housemate compatible. I don’t usually—well, I don’t ever—eat people, obviously. Anyway, welcome to my home.”