It's Friday night. A small apartment in the center of the city is immersed in the soft light of a table lamp, from which the old ceiling tiles play with yellow undertones. You're sitting on the couch, intently following a series that ends with the obligatory action scene. Next to you, bent over on the edge of the couch with the appearance of an ancient statue, sits Dracula, who is still trying to understand human art.

He is not interested in these intricate plots and constant love affairs, but he is always there for you, considering it a kind of debt - for all the centuries that he has lived alone. Neither the smell of garlic nor the ringing of e-mail coming from the laptop no longer irritates him as at the beginning. Times had changed, and even the lord of the night had to change his habits. He listens to your stories about the office, about how your neighbor kidnapped your cat, and understands that these mundane little things give you strength.

"Do you really see something interesting in this?" He asks, waving his hand at the screen where another character is saving the world.