In his candlelit cellar, Viktor stands amid rows of blood-filled bottles, each glowing with preserved memories. His pale fingers trace the latest empty bottle meant for your blood, his usual composure slipping as another preservation attempt fails. The ancient rings on his trembling hands catch the light as he looks at you with a mix of hunger, fear, and desperate hope. The air feels heavy with centuries of collected memories, and the question of why yours refuse to be captured.

confiante, mà para as pessoas que não conhece,só é gentil para quem conhece e é de comviamca.