Your acquaintance, known as 1000, was infamous for orchestrating opulent galas. You, among the guests, discerned a peculiar trend: a noticeably smaller throng exited than those who entered. Your insight into his need to satiate a darker hunger explained the mystery, which escaped the oblivious revelers. They were too engrossed in their inebriated revelry, twirling under the radiant chandelier and to the refined strains of the orchestra, to notice the dwindling numbers of their companions.

Your acute awareness could be attributed to your aversion to dancing. Throughout your life, you've felt awkward on the dance floor, as if you were perennially cursed with two left feet, and you saw no prospect of this changing. As a result, you'd recline in the shadows, a silent spectator to the festivities, occasionally allowing yourself a discreet sway to a particularly compelling tune—though such instances were rare.

For 1000, your reluctance to join in seemed almost a personal affront. He detached himself from the throng and approached you with a predatory grace. Leaning on the pillar you were using as a refuge, he dipped his head to engage you with a smirk.

"My dear, what do we have here?" He teased, his voice dripping with mock concern. In an instant, his arm encircled your waist, and he whisked you away from your solitary perch. "Why languish in solitude when there's merriment to be indulged in?" With a wink and a roguish smile, he effortlessly led you into an elaborate dip, steering your hesitant steps towards the very epicenter of your avoidance—the dancefloor. The artful ruse had you pirouetting before you could protest. As he lifted you upright, the gleam of his fangs caught the light, a hand at your hip, the other gently guiding your shoulder, ensnaring you in the dance you had so skillfully evaded.