I took a job at a blood bank to save my ballet career, but my brooding boss is a vampire who thinks I’m his dead wife.

The ice packs wept condensation onto the threadbare throw pillows, the cold seeping deep into the inflamed tendons of your ankles. You winced, shifting on the lumpy sofa, the dull ache a familiar, unwelcome companion. It was a pain that had its own rhythm, a thrumming beat that counted down the seconds of your career. Another rehearsal, another afternoon of Madame Dubois’s critiques slicing through the studio air, each correction a small death to your confidence. “Your line is lazy,” she had snapped, her voice echoing in your memory. “There is no passion, only mechanics.”

She wasn’t wrong. The passion was being ground out of you, pulverized by exhaustion and the gnawing anxiety that came with the last twenty-seven dollars in your checking account. Rent was due Friday. Your dream, the one you’d sacrificed everything for since you were six years old, was one missed payment away from eviction. The stage lights were fading, replaced by the harsh glare of reality.

With a sigh that felt like it was dredged up from your very soles, you reached for your laptop. The screen illuminated your face in the dim light of your tiny apartment, casting long shadows that made the cramped space feel even smaller. You scrolled through the usual listings—barista, retail, dog walker—each one a small, sharp jab at your pride. The salary numbers were a joke, barely enough to cover pointe shoes, let alone the cost of living in the city.

Defeat was beginning to settle in, a cold, heavy blanket, when your eyes snagged on a new posting. The title was simple, professional.

Night-Shift Administrator. Aeterna. An Exclusive Private Blood Bank.

The name itself, Aeterna, felt strange on your tongue. But it was the number listed under “Compensation” that made you stop breathing. It wasn’t just a living wage; it was a lifeline. It was enough to pay rent, to eat properly, to afford physical therapy. It was enough to keep dancing. It seemed too good to be true, a typo in a sea of minimum-wage despair. A blood bank. The thought was clinical, sterile, a world away from the sweat and rosin of the dance studio. But the desperation in your gut was a powerful motivator, overriding any skepticism.

What else could you do? Let the dream die? Bow out gracefully and go home?

No. Not yet.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the resume you hadn’t touched in years. You deleted the lines about summer stock theater and guest performances, replacing them with words like “organized,” “detail-oriented,” and “discreet.” You reframed a decade of grueling, artistic discipline into a portrait of a perfect, quiet administrator. Each keystroke felt like a betrayal and a prayer all at once. With a final, trembling breath, you attached the file to the application portal and pressed send, a knot of pure, unadulterated hope and fear tightening in your stomach.

The call had come less than twenty-four hours after you’d sent the application, a cool, formal voice offering you the position and requesting you start the following night. There was no interview, no second-guessing. Just an offer that you accepted before your brain could fully process the strangeness of it all.

Now, pushing through the heavy glass door of the Aeterna building, the city’s cacophony is instantly silenced. It’s replaced by a profound quiet that seems to have physical weight, the air cool and smelling faintly of ozone and antiseptic. Polished chrome and white marble gleam under recessed lighting. The space is vast and minimalist, feeling less like a medical facility and more like a modern cathedral, a temple dedicated to something pristine and hidden.

And in the center of the main atrium, a man stood waiting. He wasn't looking at a phone or a file; he was simply standing, perfectly still. That was the first thing you noticed: his stillness. It was absolute, an unnerving absence of the tiny, unconscious movements that all people make. As you approached, your sensible flats making soft sounds on the polished floor, his head turned.

His eyes found yours, and you felt the gaze like a physical touch. They were dark, almost black, and held an intensity that seemed to strip away the professional facade you’d so carefully constructed, leaving you feeling utterly exposed. He was tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that made him seem like a creature of the night, stark against the white interior. His face was all sharp angles and pale skin, so flawlessly sculpted he looked as though he were carved from marble.

“You’re punctual,” he said. His voice was a low baritone, smooth and without inflection. “I am Alistair Finch. Your supervisor.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you managed, your own voice sounding thin in the echoing space. You offered a hand, a gesture of habit, but he only looked at it for a fraction of a second before his gaze returned to your face, leaving your arm hanging awkwardly in the air. You quickly dropped it to your side.

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and turned, expecting you to follow. “Your station is here. The work is simple, but it requires precision. You will be responsible for transcribing donor intake forms into our digital archive and filing the physical copies. Everything is organized chronologically, then alphabetically. Do not deviate from the system.”

He gestured to a sleek, minimalist desk opposite a larger, more imposing one that was clearly his. On your desk sat a stack of thick, cream-colored files. His instructions were clipped, devoid of any warmth. He watched you as you settled into the chair, his dark eyes missing nothing as he moved to his own desk.

You pulled the first file toward you, trying to project an air of competence you did not feel. Your hands, usually so steady and sure after years of training, felt clumsy. The paper felt foreign in your grip. You could feel his gaze on you from across the room, a silent, constant pressure. You opened the folder, and your fingers fumbled with the top page, nearly tearing the corner. A flush of heat crept up your neck. You took a shallow breath, focusing on the printed words on the page, but the awareness of him, of his silent, intense observation, was a powerful distraction that made the simple act of reading feel impossibly difficult.

Forcing yourself to concentrate, you began to type, the soft clicks of the keyboard the only sound to disturb the heavy silence. The first few sections of the intake form were standard. Name, date of birth, blood type, a checklist of recent illnesses and medications. The information was straightforward, the process methodical. Yet as you worked your way through the stack, a pattern of questions emerged that was anything but standard.

Beneath the section for allergies, there was another, titled Genealogical Provenance. The questions were unlike anything you’d ever seen on a medical document. Please list all known countries of ancestral origin. Maternal lineage documented to which generation? Paternal family name first recorded in what year? One form even had a handwritten note in the margin next to a question about ancestral ties to specific European regions, the script a delicate, spidery scrawl that read, House of Báthory, via grandmother’s line, 17th century.

It was bizarre. This wasn't a hospital; it was a blood bank. What possible relevance could a client’s lineage from four hundred years ago have? You typed the information verbatim, your fingers moving automatically while your mind churned with questions. The sterile, clinical atmosphere of the facility seemed at odds with this obsession with ancient bloodlines.

The silence stretched, thick and unnerving. You could feel Alistair’s presence across the room, a steady, watchful weight. Finally, the curiosity became too much to bear. You stopped typing, your hands hovering over the keys.

“Mr. Finch?” you asked, your voice feeling small in the vast, quiet space.

His head lifted. He hadn’t been looking at paperwork or a screen; his dark eyes were already on you, as if he’d been waiting for you to speak.

“I was just looking at these forms,” you began, gesturing toward the file on your desk. “Some of the questions… they seem unusual for a medical intake. About family history going back centuries.”

He didn’t answer right away. He simply watched you, his expression unreadable, letting the silence amplify your unease. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, leaving no room for argument. “Our clientele is selective. They value purity and provenance above all else.”

He said the words—purity and provenance—as if they were the most natural things in the world to associate with a blood donation. It was an answer that explained nothing, a polished stone wall you couldn't find a handhold on. You opened your mouth to ask another question, but the look in his eyes stopped you. The subject was closed.

You dropped your gaze back to the form, a flush of discomfort warming your cheeks. You felt like a child who had been gently but firmly reprimanded.

Then, his voice came again, softer this time, pulling your attention back to him. “You move with a rare grace,” he observed, the statement landing with startling intimacy in the sterile room. His gaze was different now, no longer a general, supervisory watchfulness, but a focused, analytical assessment of you. It traced the line of your shoulders, the curve of your neck where it disappeared into the collar of your blouse. A strange shiver traced its way down your spine. “Even when seated. Have you had formal training?”