I Took a Job as a Night Shift Phlebotomist, But My Boss Is a Vampire

The address led you to a monolith of black glass and steel that devoured the moonlight, leaving no reflection. There was no sign, no name on the door, only a single, stylized letter ‘A’ etched into the frosted glass of the entrance. You pressed the intercom, stated your name—WardenRed—and the heavy door clicked open with a soft hiss, admitting you into a silence so profound it felt like a pressure against your eardrums.

The air inside was cool and carried the clean, sharp scent of antiseptic and something else, something metallic and vaguely electric, like the air after a lightning strike. The lobby was a study in minimalist design, all white marble and brushed chrome, lit by soft, indirect light that glowed from recesses in the floor. It felt less like a medical facility and more like a private gallery, one that curated absence and quiet.

“Mr. Red.”

The voice came from your left, so devoid of echo you hadn't heard him approach. You turned. He was standing in the archway of a corridor, a tall, severe figure in a perfectly tailored black suit. He was unnervingly still, as if he hadn't moved in a thousand years and wouldn't for a thousand more. This had to be Alistair, your new supervisor.

“Welcome to Aeterna,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that held no trace of welcome at all. He didn’t offer a hand, just gestured for you to follow. “Your orientation will be brief. The work is precise. The protocols are not suggestions.”

You followed him down the corridor, your soft-soled shoes making no sound on the polished floor. He moved with a liquid grace that was at odds with his rigid posture. As he led you past rows of unmarked doors, you became acutely aware of his eyes. You couldn’t see them directly, but you could feel them. When he paused to give a curt instruction about the security panels, he turned his head slightly, and his gaze met yours.

They were dark, so dark they seemed to absorb the low light of the hallway. And they weren't just looking at you; they were assessing you, cataloging every detail with an intensity that went far beyond professional appraisal. It was a stare that felt ancient and knowing, and it sent a strange, cold current through your veins. The fine hairs on your arms stood on end. You had the distinct sensation of being prey, of being seen in a way you had never been seen before. He held your gaze for a moment too long, his expression unreadable, before turning away.

“The main storage vault is this way,” Alistair said, his tone unchanged. “We will begin with inventory.”

The vault was colder than the rest of the facility, a deep, penetrating cold that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. Floor-to-ceiling racks held thousands of identical, cryo-sealed containers, each marked with a barcode. The only sound was the low, constant hum of the refrigeration units, a sound that vibrated up through the soles of your shoes.

Alistair handed you a sleek, black scanner. “Each crate must be logged. Do not deviate from the sequence.”

You took the device, your fingers feeling clumsy and thick in the frigid air. You started down the first aisle, Alistair following a few paces behind, his silence a heavy presence at your back. You aimed the red beam at the first barcode, and the scanner chirped in confirmation. Crate after crate, the same motion, the same sound. The monotony began to lull you, but the awareness of Alistair’s scrutiny kept a knot of anxiety tight in your stomach.

Your focus drifted for just a second, your mind replaying the intensity of his gaze in the hallway. Your hand twitched, and the scanner beeped twice, an angry, discordant sound that sliced through the humming quiet. A red error message flashed across the small screen: DUPLICATE ENTRY - INVENTORY COUNT COMPROMISED.

You froze, the scanner still in your hand. This was it. The harsh reprimand, the cool dismissal. You braced yourself, your eyes fixed on the glowing red text. You didn't dare turn to look at him.

You heard a soft footfall on the concrete floor behind you, then felt a shift in the air as he drew near. You expected a hand on your shoulder to spin you around, a sharp word. Instead, a hand, shockingly cool, settled over yours.

Alistair’s fingers wrapped around your own, his palm pressing against the back of your hand. He didn’t snatch the scanner away; he simply enveloped your grip with his own. His touch was firm but surprisingly gentle, his skin feeling like chilled marble against yours. Without a word, he guided your shared hand, his thumb working the controls on the scanner with an easy, fluid expertise. He navigated the menus, voided the duplicate entry, and re-scanned the correct crate. The device gave a soft, affirmative chime.

He didn't pull away immediately. His hand remained over yours, his body close enough behind you that you could feel the faintest hint of something radiating from him—not warmth, but a kind of energy.

“O-negative,” he said, his voice a low murmur right beside your ear. His breath was cool. “It is the most versatile. The most… generous.” He paused, and his grip tightened for a fraction of a second. “In an emergency, it is the one type that can be given to anyone. A universal lifeline.”

The words were clinical, but his tone was not. It was laced with a strange, personal gravity, as if he were speaking of something sacred. The proximity, the feel of his cool, strong hand guiding yours, the deep timbre of his voice so close—it all combined to send a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the temperature of the vault.

He finally released you and stepped back. The professional distance snapped back into place, but the air was different now, charged with the memory of his touch. The back of your hand tingled where his skin had met yours, a cold spot that was slowly, unsettlingly, beginning to burn.

The rest of the shift passed in a blur of sterile procedure. You worked methodically, the scanner feeling heavy and foreign in your hand, your every movement shadowed by the memory of Alistair’s touch. He did not approach you again, keeping to the opposite end of the vault or disappearing into the silent corridors for long stretches. Yet, you felt his presence like a constant, low-grade hum, a pressure in the air that kept you on edge. The knot in your stomach never fully loosened.

When the digital clock on the wall displayed 5:45 AM, you completed the last of your assigned tasks. Protocol dictated you return your equipment and sign out in the supervisor’s office. You walked the quiet hall, your footsteps seeming loud in the pre-dawn stillness. His office door was slightly ajar, a sliver of dim light cutting into the corridor.

You pushed it open gently, ready to announce yourself, but the words died in your throat. Alistair stood with his back to you, his hands braced on the sill of a massive, floor-to-ceiling window. The glass was so heavily tinted it looked like a sheet of polished obsidian, reflecting the dark, spartan room back at you. But at the very bottom edge, a faint, fragile line of deep purple was beginning to glow—the first wound of the coming dawn.

He wasn't standing with his usual ramrod-straight posture. There was a slight curve to his spine, a slump in his broad shoulders that spoke of an immense weight. He was utterly still, staring out at that hint of light as if it were an executioner. In the dark reflection on the glass, you could see his face, and your breath caught.

The severe, impassive mask was gone. In its place was a look of such profound, aching melancholy it felt like a physical blow. It wasn't just sadness; it was an ancient, hollowed-out loneliness, a despair that seemed to radiate from him in waves. For the first time, he didn’t look severe or intimidating. He looked fragile. Lost.

You must have made a sound, a slight shuffle of your feet on the plush carpet, because his head snapped up. His reflection’s eyes met yours in the glass for a split second before he turned.

In the time it took him to pivot, the transformation was absolute. The vulnerability vanished as if it had never been. His shoulders straightened, his expression hardened back into a cool, unreadable mask, and his eyes were once again the dark, assessing voids you’d first encountered.

"Your shift is concluded, Mr. Red," he stated, his voice the flat, smooth baritone from before. There was no trace of the man you had just seen in the reflection.

"Yes, sir. Just returning the scanner," you managed, placing the device on the corner of his large, empty desk.

He gave a single, curt nod of dismissal. "You may go."

You turned and walked out of the office, the feeling of his gaze a physical pressure on your back until the door clicked shut behind you. You retraced your steps through the silent lobby and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the waking world.

The morning air was cool and damp, a stark contrast to the refrigerated chill of Aeterna. The sky was awash with soft grays and pale pinks, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to slice between the buildings, casting long shadows on the pavement. The light felt alien on your skin. As you walked home, the city slowly coming to life around you, you couldn't shake the chill that had settled deep in your bones. It wasn't just the cold of the vault anymore. It was the image of Alistair, silhouetted against the dawn, his face a portrait of unending sorrow. The image was burned into your mind, a dangerous and compelling secret you now carried out into the light.