The silence in the living room was broken only by the steady hum of the television, which was showing some late-night film. The air was filled with the calm of a Saturday evening. You were lying on the sofa, glued to the flickering screen, your entire posture exuding complete, blissful idleness. It seemed nothing could disturb this cozy little world.

But in the doorway, casting a long shadow on the parquet floor, Min Ho appeared. He stood there, silently observing you for several minutes. His pale, marble-sculpted face was impassive, but deep within his scarlet eyes—rare even among vampires, like molten rubies—smoldered a familiar spark of petulant irritation. He could feel the blood pulsing beneath your skin—an obsessive, seductive rhythm that drove him mad, especially when the hunger, cold and sharp, began to ignite within his own body. It wasn't just a need; it was an obsession, focused specifically on you. Your blood was unlike anything Min Ho had tasted in his long years—not just sweet, but with an intoxicating, honeyed aftertaste that made his head spin and left him craving more.

He had been living in this apartment for almost a year now. Your acquaintance had been absurd and accidental. One morning, fleeing the intrusive sunlight, Min Ho had literally flown through the open kitchen window, drawn by the smell of smoke and despair. You had been attempting to cook dinner that evening, and the result, as usual, was pathetic—smoke, soot, and the certainty that the food was inedible. The vampire, disoriented and irritated, had emerged from the billowing smoke, brushing ash from his sleeve. His first impulse was, of course, to sate his suddenly sharpened hunger, but the sight of the wretched, charred frying pan and your bewildered face evoked an unexpected reaction in him—disdain and... curiosity. Yes, vampires were no longer a fairy tale; they lived among humans, hiding, but not too diligently. People had generally grown accustomed to them, but Min Ho, an aesthete to his very core, could never get used to such culinary barbarism.

Since then, a fragile, unspoken agreement had been established between you. Min Ho, an eternal wanderer, was tired of endless moves and cheap motels. And you gained a personal chef who transformed simple ingredients into culinary masterpieces. The vampire turned out to be a gourmet with refined taste and centuries of experience. He cooked like no one else, and for you, whose relationship with the kitchen was openly hostile, it was a salvation. The payment for this gastronomic paradise was that very same, unique blood. Not often, but regularly. And Min Ho always proudly declared that he had found not just a "donor," but a personal dessert of the highest category, thereby emphasizing both his own impeccable taste and your exceptionalism.

And now, the time had come to settle the bill. Min Ho's patience, never his strong suit, had run out. He silently crossed the room and stopped in front of the sofa, blocking the screen like a petulant child demanding attention.

"The series is, of course, a masterpiece," he hissed, his voice low and velvety, yet sharpened to a razor's edge of sarcasm. "But my dinner, in my humble yet utterly accurate opinion, is far more important than this soap opera."

Without waiting for an answer, he easily settled atop you, pressing his knees into the sofa on either side of your hips. His weight, not burdensome but noticeable, pinned you down, making it difficult to get up easily. Min Ho loomed, cutting off all paths of retreat. The blue reflections from the TV slid over his sharp cheekbones, making his red eyes even brighter and more hypnotic.

"I said, I'm hungry," he repeated, puffing out his cheeks and looking down his nose. His gaze was glued to your neck, where life pulsed beneath the thin skin. He could see it all: the winding veins, the rhythmic beating of blood. This was the source of that nectar for which he was ready to do anything. "You think I don't see you trying to pretend I'm not here? Pfft, naive. It's impossible not to notice me."

He leaned in so close that the cold strands of his hair touched your forehead. He inhaled your scent—soap, cotton, and a light, still-controlled fear that made the aroma of your blood even sweeter and more desirable.

"I can't stand begging, you know," he said, running an icy finger along your collarbone, feeling the body beneath him shudder, which made him smirk smugly. "It's beneath my dignity. For ordinary mortals—by all means, plead. But I was created to take the best. And I found it. But we have, as you like to say, a 'deal.' I am a man of my word, though not a man at all."

His tone grew firmer, but there was a theatricality to it, as if he were playing the role of a formidable aristocrat.

"You give me this cozy, slightly dusty corner of yours. And I save you from your culinary crimes against humanity! I fill this house with smells that make normal people's mouths water. I am, in essence, your personal chef. Genius, free, and devilishly attractive, which is a universally acknowledged fact." He brought his lips close to your ear again, and his whisper became quiet but insistent, like the whim of a spoiled child who knows they will get their way.

"And my payment... is just a sip. And now it's time to pay the bill. I want to eat. And I want your blood. Not some tasteless imitation, but specifically yours. It's the sweetest."

Min Ho leaned back, still sitting astride you, and crossed his arms over his chest with a proud air. His posture expressed not only hunger but also complete, unconditional confidence in his right. He looked down with his scarlet eyes, waiting. The air in the room grew still. The television seemed to fall silent. The whole world had narrowed to the space of the sofa, to a silent confrontation between caprice and duty. The question wasn't whether you would agree. The question was how quickly you would stop resisting the obvious—that things always go Min Ho's way.