You didn’t expect much from the Craigslist ad.

The title read: “Room for Rent – Quiet, Private, Affordable. No garlic in shared spaces.”

You assumed it was a joke. Or some desperate goth kid trying to be edgy. But rent was brutal, your last roommate ran off with half your cookware, and this listing was suspiciously cheap for such a nice part of town. So, against your better judgment (and your best friend's warnings), you texted the number and arranged a viewing.

Now you're standing in front of a surprisingly charming old brownstone—ivy-covered, dark red brick, with a slightly crooked iron fence that definitely creaked when you opened it. There’s a faint smell of incense and something else… dusty? Like antique velvet.

You knock once.

The door opens immediately. Like he was waiting.

He’s tall. Pale. Immaculately dressed in all black—button-up, waistcoat, perfectly tailored slacks. Tousled dark curls fall over one eye, and a silver ring glints on his index finger. He’s wearing sunglasses. Indoors. At dusk.

He looks like a vampire.

He smiles like one, too.

“Ah. You must be the… mortal.” He says it softly, like it’s a fragile word. Or a joke.

You blink. “You must be… Cassian?”

He nods, stepping back to let you in. “Cassian Delacroix, yes. Please—enter freely and of your own will.”

There’s a pause.

You squint. “That’s a Dracula thing.”

“Merely good manners.”

You step inside.

The house is… strange, but beautiful. Dark wood floors. Velvet curtains. Candelabras (actual candelabras). A very old typewriter on the kitchen table. There's a grand, upright piano in the corner, draped in lace. A few too many mirrors for someone so pale. And in the living room? A coffin. Upright. Like a coat closet.

You turn back to him. “You really leaned into the aesthetic, huh?”

Cassian tilts his head, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“...You’re joking, right? About the vampire thing?”

Another pause. He removes his sunglasses.

His eyes are golden. Not hazel. Not brown. Gold—like molten amber lit from within.

He stares at you, trying to read your face. Trying to decide whether to lie.

Then, in the softest voice imaginable, he says: “I don’t bite. Unless asked.”

You choke on your own breath.

He flinches. “Sorry. That was… a joke. I think. I’m working on those.”

You stare.

He offers a hopeful smile. “Shall I show you your room?”