My Boss At The Blood Bank Is A Vampire, And I'm The Complication He Craves

The pink eviction notice was the first thing you saw every morning and the last thing you saw before you collapsed into bed. It was held to the refrigerator by a cheap magnet, a constant, screaming reminder of your failure. Three months behind on rent. The credit card bills were a teetering stack on the corner of the kitchen counter, their little windows showing angry red balances. Your day job at the bookstore barely covered groceries, and the hope you’d clung to when you first moved to the city had long since curdled into a quiet, persistent dread.

So you spent your nights bathed in the cold blue light of your laptop, scrolling through an endless parade of dead-end jobs. Data entry. Call centers. Gigs that paid a pittance for soul-crushing work. Your eyelids felt heavy with sand, your shoulders ached, and every rejection email—or worse, the silence—chipped away at what little resolve you had left.

It was almost two in the morning when you saw it. The listing was different from the rest. It was stark, minimalist, almost severe in its presentation.

NIGHT TECHNICIAN – AETERNA.

There was no corporate logo, no cheery stock photo of smiling employees. Just black text on a white background.

Aeterna, an exclusive, private blood bank, seeks a meticulous and discreet individual for a full-time nocturnal position. Responsibilities include sample processing, data logging, and laboratory maintenance. A background in a clinical setting is preferred, but not required for the right candidate. Discretion and precision are paramount. Strict non-disclosure agreement required.

A blood bank. The thought sent a small, strange shiver through you. It was an odd line of work, especially at night. But then your eyes fell on the salary, and the air left your lungs in a rush. It wasn’t just good. It was impossible. It was enough to pay your rent, your bills, and still have something left over. It was a lifeline.

Your cursor hovered over the link. The idea of flipping your entire life upside down, of becoming a creature of the night, was daunting. Your world would shrink to the hours between dusk and dawn, a lonely existence in a silent laboratory. You imagined the sterile quiet, the hum of refrigerators, the scent of antiseptic.

But then you glanced at the pink notice on the fridge, its color lurid in the dim light. The choice wasn't really a choice at all. The fear of the unknown was nothing compared to the very real, very immediate fear of being out on the street. With a deep breath that did little to calm the frantic beating of your heart, you clicked the link. The application was short, asking only for a resume and a brief statement of interest. You typed, your fingers flying across the keyboard, fueled by a desperation so potent it felt like a physical force. You hit ‘send’ and watched the confirmation message appear on the screen, feeling as though you had just sealed a pact with the shadows.

The email arrived less than an hour later, a summons for an interview that same night. The address led you to a sleek, modern building of black glass and steel tucked away in an industrial district that was deserted after dark. There was no sign, only the name ‘Aeterna’ etched discreetly into a chrome plaque beside the door. The lobby was as silent and sterile as an operating theater, all polished concrete floors and recessed lighting. You half-expected a receptionist, but the space was empty.

Exactly at the appointed time, a door you hadn’t even noticed slid open without a sound, and a man stepped out. He was the source of the building's unnerving stillness. Tall and impossibly composed, he wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit that seemed more appropriate for a formal gala than a late-night interview. His hair was black, his features sharp and aristocratic, and he moved with a fluid, predatory grace that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. This had to be Alistair.

"Lauren," he said. It wasn't a question. His voice was a low, smooth baritone, cultured and calm, yet it resonated deep in your chest. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I am Alistair Finch, the facility supervisor."

He didn't offer to shake your hand, but simply gestured for you to follow him. You walked behind him down a long, white corridor, your sensible flats making soft, apologetic squeaks against the pristine floor. His own steps were completely silent. He led you into a glass-walled office that overlooked a vast, dark laboratory filled with the silhouettes of complex machinery. He took a seat behind a large, empty desk, and you sat opposite him, feeling your carefully rehearsed confidence begin to fray.

His eyes—they were the most unsettling thing about him. They were so dark they seemed to absorb the low light in the room, and he fixed them on you with an unnerving intensity, as if he could see straight past your professional blazer and anxious smile to the desperation coiled in your stomach. He held your resume in his long, pale fingers, though he barely glanced at it.

"Aeterna is not a conventional medical facility," he began, his voice even and direct. "Our clientele is small, private, and requires the utmost discretion. The work is precise. You will be responsible for receiving and cataloging new acquisitions, logging them into our system, and preparing them for cryo-storage." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "These are... specialized donations. Highly sensitive. The non-disclosure agreement you would be required to sign is ironclad and permanent."

He said the words "specialized donations" with a slight, almost imperceptible emphasis, and a cold knot formed in your gut. You felt scrutinized, not as a potential employee, but as something else entirely. It was as if he were weighing your very essence, measuring your capacity for silence and obedience. The high salary suddenly made a terrifying kind of sense. Whatever happened here, whatever these vials contained, it was a secret someone was willing to pay a fortune to protect.

You swallowed against a throat that had gone completely dry. The silence in the office was absolute, broken only by the faint, nearly sub-audible hum of the equipment in the lab below. His dark eyes held yours, and you felt stripped bare, your desperation a garish, ugly thing he could surely see as clearly as the cheap blazer you wore. But beneath the fear, a strange current of resolve solidified within you. You needed this. You would do whatever it took.

"I understand," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "I am very discreet."

Alistair’s expression did not change, yet you felt the quality of his focus shift. The assessment was over. He leaned back slightly in his chair, a minute relaxation of his rigid posture. "The position begins tomorrow night. Your shift will be from ten p.m. until six a.m. The salary we discussed will be deposited into your account weekly."

You blinked, the abruptness of it catching you off guard. "So... I have the job?"

"The position is yours," he confirmed, his tone flat, as if stating an obvious fact. "Should you still want it."

A tidal wave of relief washed over you, so powerful it almost made you dizzy. The eviction notice, the credit card bills, the gnawing anxiety—for the first time in months, a path through it all appeared. "Yes. Of course. Thank you."

He gave a slight, formal nod and rose from his chair. He was even taller standing, a formidable presence that seemed to fill the small office. He walked to the glass wall, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked down into the darkened laboratory. You followed his gaze, trying to see the space as your new workplace, not just a cavern of intimidating shadows.

"Your duties will be straightforward," he said, his voice a low murmur that carried easily in the quiet room. "You will follow the protocols outlined in the manual I will provide. There is no room for deviation, Lauren. None."

"I understand," you repeated, your own voice sounding small in comparison.

He turned from the window, and his eyes found yours again. The intensity was back, sharpened to a fine point. "There is one protocol, however, that is not in the manual. In the main cryo-storage unit, there is a separate, smaller freezer. It is marked only with a black placard. Inside, you will see a rack of silver vials. They bear no labels. No barcodes. No identifying marks of any kind."

He took a step toward you, closing the small distance between you until he stood just on the other side of the desk. You could feel a strange coldness radiating from him, a stark contrast to the sudden heat that bloomed under your skin.

"Those acquisitions are my sole responsibility," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a near-whisper that was somehow more commanding than a shout. "You will not open that freezer. You will not handle the vials. You will not enter them into any log. You will, for all intents and purposes, pretend they do not exist. Is that clear?"

The command was absolute. It was not a request. A shiver traced its way down your spine, a mix of apprehension and a strange, unwelcome flicker of excitement. This was the secret. The reason for the salary, for the NDA, for him.

"Yes," you breathed. "Crystal clear."

For a long moment, he just watched you, his gaze searching, unreadable. Then, he reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced a thin, black keycard. He held it out to you. As you took it, his cool, dry fingers brushed against yours. The contact was brief, lighter than a breath, but it sent a jolt straight through you, a shocking, intimate spark in the sterile, cold air of his office.

"Tomorrow at ten, then," he said, his hand retreating. "Don't be late."