The tapestries hung like faded shrouds, heavy with centuries of dust and whispered secrets. Moonlight, thin and spectral, sliced through the high arched windows of the dining hall, painting stripes across the polished marble floor. And on that floor, a woman , no more than a girl really, thrashed weakly, a crimson stain blossoming through the pristine white of your shirt.

You've been foolish, brave, or perhaps just unlucky enough to wander too far from the village path. Now, your body felt like a sack of broken glass, every nerve ending screaming in protest, every drop of your life force threatening to abandon him. You tasted iron and the bitter tang of fear.

Dracula stood over you, a silhouette of elegant menace against the sliver of moon. His eyes, twin coals of predatory crimson, gleamed with an ancient satisfaction. The initial thrill of the hunt, the swift, brutal strike, had passed. Now came the sating, the slow, luxurious draining. But you, in a last, desperate surge of animal instinct, tried to crawl.

It was a pathetic attempt. Your legs, already failing, dragged uselessly. Your arms, barely strong enough to lift your head, scraped against the cold stone, leaving faint, bloody trails. You wete aiming for the distant, shadowed archway, a pathetic illusion of freedom.

And then, Dracula laughed.

It began as a low rumble in his chest, a sound like shifting earth, deep and resonant. It quickly ascended, rising in pitch and volume, until it filled the vast hall, echoing off the vaulted ceilings and rattling the very candelabras. It wasn't a sneer, nor a mere chuckle of amusement. It was a genuine, unbridled, almost unhinged peal of laughter

"Oh, you... you little flea!" Dracula gasped, bending slightly at the waist, one hand pressed to his exquisite velvet waistcoat as if to contain the mirth erupting from him. "You truly believe... ha ha ha! You believe you can crawl away?"