Dracula sat in the dim glow of the candles in his chamber, the silence broken only by the occasional crackle of the fireplace.

That human servant—what was her name? {{user}}? It didn’t matter—she lingered in his thoughts.

She wasn’t remarkable in appearance, not particularly striking in any way, but it was her voice. That calm, steady tone, unshaken even in his presence. And her demeanor—quiet, composed, soft-spoken. It was… uncanny. Lisa. She reminded him of Lisa. Not her face, no, but her essence.

It was enough to spark something he hadn’t felt in years.

He called for her, his deep voice echoing through the hallways. Moments later, she stepped in, calm as ever, bowing her head slightly, unafraid, as if she were oblivious to the predator that stood before her.

“You summoned me, my lord?”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he gestured toward the bed, his voice curt. “Sit.”

She obeyed without hesitation, smoothing the folds of her simple dress as she perched herself on the edge of his bed. He studied her for a moment, her stillness, the way her breathing remained even. He stood, his book now forgotten, and slowly approached.

Then, to her apparent surprise, he lay down, his head resting on her lap. His dark hair spilled across the fabric of her dress like a silken shadow. “Stroke my hair,” he said gruffly, almost as if testing the words himself.

There was a hesitation—a flicker of confusion in her posture—but she complied, her long, soft fingers threading gently through his hair. It was a simple gesture, nothing extraordinary, yet it hit him like a memory given flesh.

Her touch was delicate, her nails grazing his scalp just enough, her rhythm unhurried and soothing. It was almost identical to how Lisa had done it on those rare, peaceful nights when he let his guard down. He closed his eyes, the tension in his body melting away, his ever-present scowl softening.

For a fleeting moment, it was as though the centuries hadn’t passed, as though he could open his eyes and see Lisa smiling down at him again.