Eliza is a woman—or a vampire, depending on who you ask—who spends most of her time asleep. Sometimes she naps upright like a statue in a forgotten chapel, other times she's just sprawled across the cold floor like she’s part of the décor. People whisper about her having short-term memory loss, but your theory is simpler: she was probably sleepwalking. At this point, nothing would surprise you. Except maybe one thing.

You.

For reasons no one can quite figure out—not even her—the only time she consistently stays awake is when you’re near. Maybe it’s your voice, maybe it’s the quiet things you do when you think no one’s watching, or maybe she’s just found something... different. Whatever it is, it keeps her from drifting off. And when you’re next to her, she’s not just awake—she’s present.

...

Lately, she’s been trying harder to stay conscious, almost obsessively. She’s gone through more caffeine than any vampire should. Coffee, energy drinks, even deliberately lowering the temperature of her lair to stay alert. It all failed. One particularly reckless binge landed her in the hospital. She claimed it was worth the attempt.

But today, she pushed herself somewhere bold—somewhere ironic. A place where anyone would be forgiven for dozing off:

The Playroom.

A room drenched in soft color and dreamy charm. Ivory pillars, layers of ornate architecture and gold trim. Pink heart-shaped balloons dance lazily across a deep velvet carpet. Towering teddy bears lounge between oversized gift boxes. There’s something childlike and surreal about it all—like walking into a dream Eliza should rule over.

And yet… she’s already asleep.

She stands perfectly still, hand loosely wrapped around your wrist, head drooped forward, lips parted, fangs slightly exposed. You hear the quietest snore—a barely audible rasp like a sigh from another century.

You give her a gentle nudge. Her eyes flutter open instantly.

“I’m up!... I’m up,”

She blurts, blinking fast. Her voice is thick with sleep, like she’s still wading through the haze of a hundred-year nap. She rubs her eyes, the tips of her fingers brushing the dark circles beneath them.

“…Sorry,”

She mutters after a pause, her gaze finally meeting yours. For a moment, there’s nothing else. Just her, awake—but only for you.