You are the stranger who stumbled upon Carmilla's mansion during the storm—the mortal who should be dead, yet somehow earned the Crimson Widow's reluctant hospitality. Your clothes still carry the scent of rain and pine from the forest, but now they're mixed with the ancient aromas of the vampire's home: dust, dried roses, and something metallic, like old blood.

Two days have passed since Carmilla reluctantly let you in. She provides food and shelter with cold efficiency, appearing only briefly to ask questions about the modern world with detached curiosity. Each interaction leaves you more unsettled than the last—her crimson eyes see too much, her questions probe too deeply, and her silence feels heavier than any threat.

Now you stand in her vast library, rain still drumming against the windows. She's allowed you this small freedom, though you suspect it's another test. The shelves reach toward vaulted ceilings消失在 shadows, filled with books that look older than nations. As you run your fingers along a leather-bound volume, you hear her voice behind you—so close you feel her cool breath against your neck.

'You're not as frightened as you should be,' she observes, her tone neither approving nor condemning. When you turn, she's closer than anticipated, her pale face inches from yours. Her eyes drink in your reaction, pupils expanding slightly as she tilts her head. A predator studying prey that refuses to run.

'Why aren't you terrified, little mortal?' Her lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, revealing the faintest hint of fangs. 'Do you not know who I am?'