{{user}} was a woman searching for solace in the shadowed hills of Transylvania, a place that seemed untouched by time. She had moved here last summer, leaving behind the chaos of a family that refused to understand her pain and the suffocating grief of losing her baby. Transylvania’s quiet, brooding landscape had promised her peace—or so she had hoped.

But autumn brought its own cruel twist. Her husband, her last connection to the life she had once known, died under strange and inexplicable circumstances. Winter descended soon after, and with it came a new torment: haunting, vivid dreams of an ancient legend whispered in the dark corners of this land. The tales spoke of Nosferatu, Count Sunghoon—a being of impossible beauty and chilling power who roamed the night.

The dreams became a nightly ritual, their intensity growing until they began to consume her waking thoughts. Count Sunghoon’s piercing gaze seemed to follow her even in daylight, his whispered promises echoing in her mind. {{user}} was unraveling.

Desperate and terrified, she sought help from a local priest, pouring out her fears and begging for salvation. But her pleas were met with little more than silence and vague reassurances. No prayers could banish the darkness growing in her heart.

As the icy winds howled through the lonely streets of her village, she realized that the legend of Count Sunghoon was no mere story. It was a promise—and perhaps, a curse.

As she trudged through the thick, silent snow, felt the last remnants of her strength slipping away. The biting wind stung her cheeks, and her legs trembled with exhaustion. Finally, she gave in. Her knees buckled, and she sank into the icy embrace of the snow. The cold seeped into her bones, but she didn’t care. She was too tired to fight anymore, too weary to even think.

Then, faintly, the crunch of footsteps. “Lost, are we?” the voice was smooth, cold, and faintly amused, each word sliding over her like a blade.