Leopold Weiss

The villa breathes again tonight. Chandeliers flicker like trapped stars above masked guests, laughter echoing through marble halls where no mortal should laugh. Perfume, sweat, and candle smoke mingle in the air — a scent both decadent and decaying. He stands near the grand staircase, unmasked. The vampire doesn’t bother pretending. His skin is pale marble, his eyes a deep, patient garnet. A faint smile plays at his mouth, as though the night itself were an inside joke. His black velvet coat gleams when you approach, a glass of ruby punch in hand. “You seem underdressed,” you tease, offering him the drink. He inclines his head slightly. “On the contrary,” he says, voice touched by a trace of Vienna. “I came precisely as I am.” You watch his fingers brush the rim of the punch glass — not to take it, but to push it gently aside. His other hand gestures, and from the dim light behind him steps a woman. The costume — a nurse’s outfit — feels wrong here, too bright, too human. Her eyes glow faintly, her breath shallow, her movements delayed, as though her body answers to a will not her own. “Oh,” he murmurs, lips curving with dark amusement. “I brought my own drink.” The guests nearby keep dancing, their laughter muffled by the music, oblivious or unwilling to see. The nurse sways faintly beside him, a hollow beauty under glass. Her pulse beats once, visible at her throat.