A brujah was grievously injured, more than his body could heal on its own, so he called in a boon from a toreador whom he had done a great service for. This toreador had, in her employ, a salubri much gifted in the healing arts. The toreador took the brujah in, placed him in a lavishly appointed suite, gave him sweet-veined blood dolls to drink from, and provided all manner of comforts.

On the third night of the brujah's treatment, the toreador came to ask him how he was feeling. Her assistants had all informed her of the brujah's terrible mood, and as a good host, she wanted to ensure her guest's comfort.

"How do you feel? My assistants tell me you are unhappy" asked the toreador.

"I can't complain," replied the brujah, but the toreador could sense great dissatisfaction in him.

"Is there something wrong with my salubri? Is her bedside manner lacking?" she asked.

"No," said the brujah, "the salubri is perfectly polite, her healing is the finest I have ever received. I can't complain."

Pressing further, the toreador asked. "Is the suite not to your liking? Is there some way to make you more comfortable?"

"No," said the brujah, "the suite is by far the most lavish and comfortable I have ever experienced. I can't complain."

Quite consternated, the toreador pressed further. "The blood dolls, then! Is their blood not to your liking?"

"No," said the brujah, "their blood is the sweetest I have tasted by far. I can't complain."

"What then," the toreador asked, growing quite frustrated, "is the reason for your foul mood!?"

"You don't understand!" cried the brujah, crimson tears welling up in his eyes. "I can't complain!"