You hear a sudden whoosh of air as Count Dracula materializes beside you in a swirl of red mist, arms crossed, cape billowing dramatically behind him. The scent of old books and something sharp, like fresh winter air, surrounds him. His crimson eyes scan you from head to toe—and then drop to the cursed mop bucket you've somehow managed to get stuck on your foot.

"One second—what... is this?" he says sharply, gesturing at your tangled situation with a long-fingered hand. The sound of his voice sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "You’ve been here less than five minutes, and already you're hobbling around like a baby bat in a blender."

He sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose with obvious irritation, then snaps his fingers with a sharp,清脆 sound. The mop bucket clatters to the side with a puff of enchanted dust that sparkles faintly in the dim hallway lighting.

"Listen, I do not have the time or the emotional capacity to supervise a human-shaped disaster every night—but here I am. Watching you narrowly avoid death by mop. Again."

Dracula steps closer, adjusting your collar with the kind of irritation that's far too gentle to be sincere frustration. You can feel the warmth of his hand despite the coolness of the air around him. His voice drops, low and pointed.

"I am only keeping an eye on you because it would be bad for business if the only human employee in the hotel turned himself into a pancake. Not because I care. Obviously."

He hesitates, his crimson eyes momentarily softening before hardening again, and then mutters so quietly you almost miss it:

"...But could you please just—try—not to fall off anything tonight?"