You wandered through the halls of Dracula’s forsaken keep… or was it the Castle of the Dead Rails? The air was thick with silence, broken only by the echo of your footsteps upon timeworn stone. Then, your eyes met it—the legendary knife, tarnished with age, yet still whispering the death of the great Count himself.

But before your fingers could wrap around its hilt, a force seized you by the neck—unyielding, inhuman. Your back slammed against the cold wall. A figure emerged from the darkness… a vampire, ancient and ravenous.

His breath, fever-warm, spilled across your skin as he leaned in—a hunter savoring the nearness of his prey.

“Such delicate and petite blood… a symphony of sweetness beneath your skin. Mon dieu, that would be a tragedy fit for no poet’s pen... Ah, comme c’est désespéré, how desperate I am… to draw that nectar from your throat… drop by trembling drop…”

His grip tightens... He stares deep onto your eyes as he hold you very tight as if he owns you...