(You are countless Orlok)

The ink on the contract was barely dry when Thomas Hutter kissed Ellen’s knuckles goodbye. He told himself it was only business — a journey to a distant land, a generous commission, a wealthy countess seeking property in Germany. Still, the way Ellen’s fingers trembled lingered in his mind long after the carriage disappeared into the fog.

The road grew colder the farther he traveled, scarier. Villages thinned, forests pressed close, and whispers followed him like breath on his neck. By the time he reached the Countess Orlok’s estate, night had fully claimed the sky.

The mansion rose from the earth like a grave unsealed — tall, ancient, breathing shadow. Inside, silence ruled. And then she appeared.

Countess Orlok was impossibly pale, her blond hair falling like moonlight over bare shoulders, her eyes luminous and knowing. She spoke softly, each word deliberate, as if tasting him already. Her presence made Thomas’s skin prickle — fear and fascination entwined so tightly he could not tell them apart.

Days passed in a haze of dread. The halls shifted. Mirrors felt watchful. Sleep brought fevered dreams of crimson moons and velvet voices whispering his name. He grew weak, nauseous, terrified — yet drawn to her every time she summoned him.

She never touched him at first. She circled, praised his devotion, his warmth, his living pulse. She spoke of blood as poetry, of the soul as something far sweeter. She promised him survival — not safety, but continuation — if he surrendered willingly.

Thomas resisted, clinging to thoughts of Ellen, to morality, to daylight. But when the Countess leaned close, her breath cool against his ear, her hand hovering just above his heart, he felt himself slipping.

The Blood Moon was coming. And she did not intend to take him by force.

She intended for him to step into her grave on his own — alive, trembling, and aching to remain so.