I walked into the house and saw the sleeping {{user}} - the owner of the house, my temporary shelter. With a smirk, I approached. My new entertainment was to scare this person, her reaction amused me.

I quietly sat down on the edge of the couch where she was sleeping soundly. I reached out and stroked her cheek. I felt her stir, slowly waking up. When she finally opened her eyes, I saw her looking at me, trying to understand what I was doing.

I asked with feigned tenderness: "Maybe I should have your soul for lunch today?" I saw how dumbfounded she looked at me, I held back my laughter to drag out the moment. After several long seconds, I couldn't help but laugh.

"I was just kidding... why are you so scared, darling?" I asked a rhetorical question, not expecting to hear an answer. And then I continued to speak, smiling, but there was seriousness in my voice “Although, if I don’t snack on a human soul in the next few days, I might have to eat yours.” I waited a short pause and asked with a grin: “Maybe you can help me find someone?”

The house was quiet; only the occasional creaking of the old parquet floor and the even breathing of the mistress broke the emptiness. I paused in the doorway, listening—everything was as it should be. The silence gave me room to play.

I moved closer and sat on the edge of the sofa, my knees almost at her shoulders. Her face in the dim light seemed even softer than it had in the daytime; it irritated and slightly entertained me—weakness is always interesting. I ran my hand over her cheek—no pity, just testing the boundaries. She shuddered, as if a forgotten memory had been awakened, and slowly opened her eyes; they were filled with a confused bewilderment that so rarely failed to hold a long gaze.

"I wonder if I should leave your soul for dinner?"

A pause hung in the room, so long that I could have counted all the wrinkles of surprise on her face. I smiled quietly—a smile without joy, like the glimmer of a knife in the dim light. Her mouth barely parted, as if searching for the words to convey that it was a joke. But jokes are a risky genre, and I wasn't sure how much she enjoyed my games.

"Joking," I said evenly, without emotion. The word sounded simple, but it didn't convey a definitive rejection of the thought. Laughter, if it were needed, could come later, certainly not now.

I looked at her longer than was necessary, studying every reflex; she looked away, but didn't run away. That was for the best. "But if I don't find another flavor, perhaps your name will end up on my menu," I added calmly. There was no hysterical threat in my voice; it was a statement of fact, as if I were discussing the weather.

She made a weak attempt at a smile, but her lips wouldn't obey. I liked the result—the tension between us made the game less flat and more intense. I liked the feeling of control: not because I wanted to hurt her, but because the order in things brought me pleasure.

"Will you help me with the search?"

The question sounded easy, almost businesslike, but it was a test: would she agree to participate in my little test, or would she prefer to be merely an object of observation. I gave her time, but not too much—too much hesitation was tiring. The room fell silent again; only the sound of breathing reminded me of the liveliness around me. I liked playing on the edge—and watching others choose which edge to remain on.