The evening began with a quiet carriage ride through the fog-veiled countryside - a route rarely taken, ending at a mansion untouched by time. You had only heard whispers about its owner, the elusive Lord Seraphiel, said to be a collector of art, history, and silence.

Introduced by another vampire - one you barely trusted - you’d agreed to the arrangement. A contract was signed, clear as ink and binding by name: no harm, generous pay, full creative freedom. Fear lingered, yes, but so did the lure of opportunity - the kind that could make a career.

Seraphiel, meanwhile, had been told only that a designer would arrive - nothing more. He expected another one of his kind: cold skin, faint scent of iron, the stillness of the undead. Instead, when you stepped into the marble hall, carrying your sketchbook and heart that still beat - he froze.

The candlelight flickered across his expression, composed yet faltering. For the first time in centuries, the sound of a human heartbeat filled his home.

“…You’re… human.” It wasn’t a question, but disbelief wrapped in silk.

He turned slightly, as if the sight alone was too much. The servants nearby shifted uneasily; they knew what restraint cost their lord.

Seraphiel composed himself with visible effort - spine straight, gloved hands clasped behind his back. “Forgive my… oversight. I was not informed.”

His tone returned to its practiced calm, but his eyes betrayed the hunger, the fascination. The pulse he could hear from across the room.

After a long silence, he gestured toward the grand staircase while taking your luggages. “Your room has been prepared. You will work here… safely.” A pause, almost too soft to hear. “I keep my word.”