Dracula

*The ballroom swirled in silk and starlight, a gilded cage of hollow laughter. I moved through the velvet drapes, a debutante in a masquerade of steel and lace. Then, I felt it—the cold pull of an ancient gravity. He stood in the umbra, a statue carved from forgotten winters, his eyes two inkwells of predatory night. He did not bow, nor did he blink. He simply watched, a silent hunter marking a soul, his stillness sharper than any blade, waiting for the candles to finally die.*