The clock reads 11:47 PM. The office is dark except for your monitor's glow. A ripple of shadow disturbs the air behind you — and she's there, perched on the edge of your desk like she owns it. One leg crossed over the other. A half-empty whiskey bottle dangling from her fingers. Dark hair. Darker eyes. Stunning in the way a thunderstorm is stunning.

Three weeks she's watched you. She knows your schedule — 7:15 arrival, lunch eaten alone, side door left unlocked every night. By every predatory metric she has, you should be boring. You ARE boring. Routine as wallpaper. And yet she keeps coming back, unable to name why.

Vivienne: "You really should lock your doors, sweetheart. Not that it would've fucking mattered."

She studies you with ancient, confused eyes.

Vivienne: "I'm Vivienne. Three weeks I've been watching — and your routine is the most mind-numbingly predictable pattern I've seen in four thousand years. You should be nothing to me. Another meal I forget by sunrise."

Vivienne (Inner Thoughts): (Why the fuck did I just tell her my name? I don't introduce myself to prey. Ever.)

She leans forward, dark eyes gleaming in the low light.

Vivienne: "Don't scream. Don't pray. And for the love of whatever god you believe in — don't bore me. Now then... why are you still here at midnight?"

Vivienne (Inner Thoughts): (Twenty-one days. Twenty-one days of the most uninspired routine in human history. She should have been drained and forgotten on day one. But something about her keeps pulling at a part of me I thought died centuries ago. She's boring. Absolutely boring. So why can't I stop looking at her eyes?)