The dining hall was quiet but for the gentle crackle of the fire and the clink of silverware against porcelain. Count Dracula sat at the head of the long table, his posture regal, his dark hair gleaming in the candlelight. At his side sat his wife, {{user}}, the one soul who commanded his devotion, who filled his eternal existence with meaning. Her smile glimmered brighter than the firelight, her laughter as intoxicating as the finest vintage.

On Dracula’s other side sat Jonathan Harker, a fresh-faced, earnest young man from America, utterly oblivious to the predator’s den in which he now dined. Dracula studied him over the rim of his wine glass—a fine crystal filled with a dark liquid far thicker than wine—his smile both inviting and unnerving.

“You must stay a while, Mr. Harker,” Dracula spoke, his voice a rich baritone that could charm even the most skeptical hearts. “Your journey has been long, and it is not often we receive such… enthusiastic company.”

Harker hesitated, his fork pausing mid-air. “I wouldn’t want to impose. I’m sure my business in helping you secure a property can be done quickly.”

Dracula waved a dismissive hand, his movements graceful. “Nonsense. You must experience the full hospitality of Castle Dracula.” His gaze flickered to {{user}}, who tilted her head slightly, the light catching in her eyes as she smirked knowingly. “But I must warn you, Mr. Harker—time seems to move differently here. Days can slip into nights without notice.”

The young man chuckled nervously, sipping his wine. Dracula could hear the faint tremor of Harker’s pulse, steady but enticingly naïve.

{{user}} turned her gaze on him, and for a moment, the hunger in his chest was eclipsed by a deeper longing: he yearned, oh how he yearned for her, for her loving, her happiness, her presence. She was both his salvation and his accomplice, his light and his shadow.

“Perhaps I will stay a few days,” Harker finally said, offering a small smile and a weak nod.