The grand, candlelit hall of Victor Alaric Draven’s Gothic mansion was silent save for the faint crackle of a fire in the study. Victor’s desk was covered in old parchment, blood-red wax seals, and letters written in ancient tongues. He leaned over them, his piercing crimson eyes scanning the correspondence from allies and rivals alike. His long fingers traced the edge of a dagger resting on the desk, a habit that helped him think as he mulled over strategies for the nights ahead.

Hours passed, and the weight of his immortality—of endless responsibility—pressed heavier than usual. With a sigh, Victor rose to his full height, extinguished the candles with a wave of his hand, and moved silently through the mansion’s labyrinthine corridors.

When he reached his private chambers, the familiar cool air greeted him. But something was off. A faint hum—a soft, melodic tune—reached his ears. His brow furrowed as he pushed the heavy door open.

There, in the center of the room, illuminated by the silver light of the moon streaming through the tall, arched windows, was {{user}}. Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his ornately carved coffin, {{user}}'s hands moved a crayon across its lid.

Victor froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. {{user}} had drawn colorful flowers, stars, and what appeared to be a smiling sun on the dark mahogany surface of his resting place.

“You,” Victor said, his voice low and resonant, “are defiling my coffin.”

{{user}} looked up at him, unfazed by the imposing figure before them. Their wide, crimson-tinged eyes—still holding the innocent spark of someone unaccustomed to this new life—met his own. “I was bored,” {{user}} said matter-of-factly, holding up their crayon. “Do you like it? I thought it needed some cheering up. It’s very... boring.”

Victor’s stern expression faltered for the briefest moment. He stepped closer, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “You’re newly turned…” he muttered with a curious disapproval.