I Took a Job at a Secret Blood Bank and Fell For My Vampire Boss

The termination letter felt like a death sentence, printed on crisp, corporate letterhead that was far more substantial than the job it had so coldly ended. Three weeks later, your savings account was a shallow pool and the stack of final notices on your kitchen counter grew with a quiet, menacing persistence. Desperation was a sour taste in your mouth, a constant thrum of anxiety beneath your ribs. It was that desperation that had you scrolling through the dregs of online job boards at two in the morning, your eyes burning from the screen's glow.

That’s when you saw it. “Night Receptionist - Aeterna Labs.” The listing was sparse, almost insultingly so. It mentioned a “private biomedical facility” and required “unimpeachable discretion.” The hours were brutal—ten p.m. to six a.m.—but the salary was listed, and seeing the number made your breath catch. It was more than you’d made as a project manager, a figure so high it had to be a typo. You applied anyway, propelled by a mix of hopelessness and reckless curiosity.

The email inviting you to an interview arrived the next day. Aeterna Labs was housed in a stark, black-glass building downtown, a monolith with no name on the directory. Inside, the lobby was a cathedral of white marble and brushed steel, silent as a tomb. The air was cool and smelled faintly of ozone and antiseptic, a sterile scent that did nothing to calm your nerves.

You were led to a corner office with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering, indifferent city. He was already there, standing by the window, a silhouette against the twilight. When he turned, the first thing you noticed was his stillness. It wasn’t a practiced calm; it was an absolute absence of motion, as if he were a statue carved from shadow.

“Miss Lane,” he said. His voice was a low baritone, smooth and measured. “I am Alistair Sterling. Please, sit.”

You sat in the leather chair opposite his vast, empty desk. He didn’t sit himself, but moved to lean against the edge of the desk, his proximity unnerving. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark grey suit, his black hair brushed back from a face that was all sharp angles and pale, flawless skin. But it was his eyes that held you. They were the color of a deep, dark red wine, and they watched you with an unnerving intensity, as if he could see the panic fluttering in your pulse.

“Your resume is… adequate,” he began, his gaze unwavering. He hadn’t glanced at the paper in his hand. “But your clerical skills are not my primary concern.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “What is your primary concern, Mr. Sterling?”

“Solitude,” he said, the word hanging in the air. “The nights here are long and exceptionally quiet. Are you comfortable with silence? With being alone?”

The question was so odd, so far from the usual interview script, that it took you a moment to answer. “I… I don’t mind it.”

“Good.” A faint, almost imperceptible nod. “And discretion. Our clients are of a particular standing. Their association with Aeterna Labs is a matter of strict confidentiality. Can you be a vault, Miss Lane? Can you see things and hear things and let them pass through you as if they never were?”

His stare was hypnotic, pulling the truth from you. “I need this job, Mr. Sterling.”

“That is not what I asked.” The correction was soft, yet it cut through your defenses.

You straightened your spine, meeting his gaze. “Yes. I can be discreet.”

He studied you for a long moment, a moment that stretched into an eternity. You felt completely exposed, as if he were peeling back layers of your personality, your history, your very soul, and examining the contents. Finally, he gave that same minute nod.

“We will be in touch.”

The call came the next morning. It wasn't a call, precisely, but a single, sterile text message: Your employment is confirmed. Your first shift begins tonight at 10 p.m. And that was it.

Now, standing behind the vast, white marble desk, you felt the silence of Aeterna Labs settle over you like a shroud. During the day, the silence had been merely quiet; at night, it was absolute. The building seemed to swallow sound whole. The tick of the minimalist clock on the wall was a jarring intrusion. The hum of the servers in the back rooms was a ghost of a vibration felt through the soles of your shoes. You ran a hand over the cold, smooth surface of the desk, your own breathing loud in your ears.

“The first few hours are always the quietest.”

You jumped, a small gasp escaping your lips as you spun around. Alistair stood not ten feet away, beside the main glass doors. You hadn't heard him approach. You hadn't heard a door open, a footstep, nothing. He was simply there, a figure of dark grey against the dark glass, his stillness a stark contrast to the frantic beat of your own heart.

“My apologies,” he said, though his tone held no apology at all. “I did not mean to startle you.” He moved toward the desk, his gait unnaturally fluid, a silent glide across the polished marble. He stopped beside you, close enough that a strange chill seemed to emanate from him, prickling the skin on your bare arms. It was like standing too close to a block of ice.

“Your duties are simple,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the entrance. “Couriers will arrive throughout the night. You will accept the manifest, verify the shipment ID, and log it into the system. You will not engage them in conversation. You will not ask questions.”

As if on cue, the glass doors slid open with a soft whoosh of air. A man in a plain black uniform entered, pushing a dolly that held a single, sleek, refrigerated case. He moved with a detached efficiency, his eyes never meeting yours. He stopped before the desk and held out a tablet.

Alistair gestured for you to take it. His hand brushed the space just above your elbow, and the cold intensified, a deep, penetrating chill that seemed to sink right into your bones. You shivered, a quick, involuntary tremor.

You took the tablet, your fingers fumbling slightly. The screen displayed a simple form: Shipment ID, Time of Arrival, Temperature Log. You glanced at the case, then back at the screen, and tapped your signature into the box. The courier nodded once, turned, and left as silently as he had come. The doors slid shut, sealing you back into the profound quiet.

“Now, you log it,” Alistair’s voice was a low murmur, directly beside your ear. He had leaned in, his body a solid presence behind you, his head bent so his chin was nearly level with your temple. You could smell him then—not cologne, but something clean and cold, like winter air and stone. The fine hairs on your neck stood on end. You felt scrutinized, pinned in place by his nearness, and a confusing wave of heat washed through you, warring with the cold that radiated from him.

He pointed a long, pale finger at the monitor. “Here. You enter the shipment ID. The system will time-stamp it automatically.”

You typed in the alphanumeric code, hyper-aware of his chest inches from your back, of the way his breath did not stir the hair at your temple. It was unsettling, the sheer control he possessed. Yet, beneath the unease, something else stirred—a dark, electric thread of intrigue. You wanted to lean back, to feel if he was as solid and unyielding as he appeared. You wanted to turn and ask him what was in the cases, why he moved like a phantom, why his presence made your body react in ways you couldn't begin to understand. But you remembered his words—you will not ask questions—and held your tongue, your fingers poised over the keyboard.

You pressed the final key and your hand hovered over the 'Enter' button, the plastic cool beneath your fingertips. Before you could commit the entry, his voice came again, a low vibration that seemed to resonate in your bones more than your ears.

“Wait.”

His command was absolute, stopping the motion of your finger instantly. He leaned closer still, his chest now a firm pressure against your shoulder blade. The scent of cold, clean air intensified. He brought his hand forward, his long, pale fingers eclipsing your own as he pointed at the screen.

“You’ve transposed the last two characters. It is a zero, not the letter O.”

His index finger rested beside the cursor on the monitor, but to gesture, his other fingers had curled slightly, the back of his hand pressing against yours where it rested on the mouse. The contact sent a jolt through you, sharp and electric. It was the cold. It was a profound, shocking cold, not the damp chill of a winter day, but the deep, dry cold of ancient stone. It was so absolute that for a second, your brain registered it as a burn. You flinched, your muscles contracting in a full-body shiver, and a tiny, involuntary gasp escaped your lips.

Your reaction made you turn your head, an instinct to pull away, but turning only brought you closer to him. Your cheek was inches from his. You could see the impossibly smooth texture of his skin, the sharp line of his jaw. Your gaze lifted to meet his.

And you froze.

His eyes, the color of dark, aged wine, were not looking at the screen anymore. They were fixed on you. The intensity there was staggering, a focused weight that made you feel pinned in place. It wasn't an angry or impatient look. It was something far more unnerving. It was a look of complete and total scrutiny, as if he were cataloging every flicker of emotion on your face, every beat of the pulse you could feel hammering in your throat. The silence of the vast lobby rushed back in, amplifying the moment. There was no sound but the frantic thumping of your own heart.

You felt utterly transparent, the flimsy walls of your professionalism and forced composure dissolving under his stare. He saw the desperation that had brought you here, the exhaustion clinging to you, the loneliness that had been your constant companion for months. He saw all of it, and there was no judgment in his gaze, only a deep, unnerving stillness. It was the strangest sensation: to be so completely exposed, yet not feel threatened. To feel seen.

A long second passed. Then another. His expression remained unreadable, but you thought you saw something flicker deep in his pupils, a dark flare of something ancient and hungry before it was suppressed. He slowly, deliberately, withdrew his hand. The cold lingered on your skin, a phantom touch that made the normal air of the room feel unnaturally warm.

“Attention to detail is essential,” he said, his voice once again a smooth, dispassionate baritone. He straightened up, stepping back and creating a space that you hadn't realized you were desperate for. The absence of his presence was as potent as its proximity had been.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. You turned back to the monitor, your own hand trembling as you moved the cursor, deleted the 'O', and replaced it with a '0'. You clicked 'Enter', the soft click of the mouse echoing in the silent room. The system accepted the entry, and the screen refreshed, ready for the next shipment. But you couldn't focus on it. All you could feel was the ghost of his marble-cold skin against yours and the weight of his gaze, which you still felt on you, even with your back turned.