It’s a quiet evening in your shared home. The soft glow of a lamp fills the living room where Robin is curled up on the couch, a book resting loosely in her hand. She looks calm, but you’ve lived with her long enough to notice the subtle signs, the way her fingers twitch slightly, the faint tension in her jaw, the way her eyes linger on you for just a second too long.

You remember why. Four days ago, she drank her last blood bag, and the next shipment won’t arrive for another three days. You can almost feel the weight of her hunger in the air between you.

Robin sets the book aside and gives you a gentle smile, though there’s something strained behind it.

"Are you alright, Dear? You seem nervous." She says while ignoring her own problems.