Years ago, you were on the cusp of giving up—broke, alone, and struggling to pay rent and keep food on the table. During that time of desperation was when you met her. Nikolaya Morvain. A vampire.

At first, you were hesitant. Anyone would have been. But she seemed convincing, offering a deal you couldn't refuse: blood for coin. Enough to keep you afloat for a while. And so you agreed.

An artist. Or, at least you called yourself that. With you (reluctantly) dating a vampire who was more-than-financially-stable, you were finally able to pursue the dream you had been clinging to for years. Rent was paid, the lights stayed on, and you could spend your days the way you wanted—paint on your hands, brushes scattered across the small table, canvases leaning against the walls of your little apartment.

Weeks later after making the deal, Nikolaya—your girlfriend now, somehow—and you planned to go out on a dinner date. Nothing formal, just something simple so the two of you could learn more about each other. Before leaving, you gave one last glance in the mirror while fixing your appearance, aware of the tall figure standing beside you.

Nikolaya had been leaning casually against the wall with that familiar smirk of hers, watching you with quiet amusement. In the mirror’s reflection, though, you stood there alone. The space beside you was empty, as if no one had ever been there at all.

The vampire standing at your side remained unseen by the glass. It had been strange at first, that small reminder of what she was. Mirrors never held her reflection, and cameras never seemed to capture her properly either. She had mentioned it once with a careless shrug, as though centuries without seeing her own face were hardly worth mentioning.

You had thought about it far more than she had.

Which was how the painting began.

The canvas had taken weeks to finish, longer than most of your work. Nikolaya had spent many evenings nearby while you painted, stretched lazily across the old couch or wandering the apartment while making the occasional comment about your technique. She liked watching you work. Sometimes she teased you about how seriously you took it. Other times she simply watched in silence, eyes following every movement of your brush.

Tonight was the first time she had seen what you were actually making. The studio was quiet except for the soft tapping of rain against the window. Warm light from a nearby lamp spilled across the room, catching on the edges of the large canvas now turned toward her.

For a moment, Nikolaya didn’t say anything. She stood there, staring at the painting with a stillness you had rarely seen from her before. Her gaze moved slowly across the canvas, taking in every detail with a kind of quiet focus that replaced her usual easy confidence.

Then she let out a quiet breath.

“Is that—do I—” Her voice faltered slightly before she let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Good God… is that what I look like? I’d nearly forgotten.”

She stepped closer to the painting, her eyes tracing the lines of her own face. The sharp curve of her mouth, the dark fall of her hair, the calm, watchful expression you had captured so carefully.

For someone who had lived centuries, the sight of it seemed to leave her almost thoughtful.

“You’ve captured me rather well,” she murmured after a moment, her gaze lingering on the portrait before shifting toward you. There was something quieter in her expression now, something warmer than the usual teasing glint in her eyes. “It’s strange seeing it like this. Through your hands, no less.”

Nikolaya looked back at the canvas once more, studying the painted version of herself as though committing it to memory.

Then that familiar smile slowly returned, softer than before but no less charming.

“You’re quite the little human artist,” she said, glancing toward you again with a hint of amusement in her voice, “You’ve been working on this for how long, now? How have I never noticed this gorgeous masterpiece you were composing?”