I Work the Night Shift at a Blood Bank, and My Boss is a Vampire Who Craves My Blood

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the cavernous silence of the main laboratory. It was less a lab and more a cathedral dedicated to some forgotten science. The air, chilled and sterile, carried the sharp scent of antiseptic layered over the faint, dry smell of old paper and polished wood. Dark mahogany cabinets with brass handles lined the walls, their glass doors revealing not beakers and flasks, but what looked like leather-bound books and strange, antique medical instruments. The only light came from green-shaded lamps spaced far apart on long, dark tables, casting pools of isolated brightness in the vast, echoing dark.

He was waiting for you by the central workstation, standing so still you almost missed him. Alistair. Your new supervisor. He was taller than you’d expected from the brief, formal interview, dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that seemed more suited for a funeral than a night shift. He didn't move as you approached, not so much as a shift in his weight. His stillness was what struck you first; it was absolute, an unnerving pocket of calm in a world of constant motion.

“Good evening,” he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone, yet it held no warmth. It was simply a sound, perfectly modulated and precise. “You are punctual. I appreciate that.”

His eyes, dark and deeply set, finally met yours. They held an intensity that made the breath catch in your throat. It felt less like he was looking at you and more like he was seeing straight through you, cataloging every nervous flutter of your pulse.

“Your duties are straightforward,” he continued, turning his attention to a refrigerated storage unit. He moved with an unnerving grace, his motions economical and exact. “You will be responsible for the intake and cataloging of our acquisitions. We deal exclusively in rare hematological profiles. Each sample must be cross-referenced with its donor file, logged in the digital archive, and stored in its designated temperature-controlled sector.”

He gestured to a stainless-steel rack holding dozens of vials filled with dark, crimson liquid. “The labels are self-explanatory. The system is intuitive. Precision is paramount. There is no room for error here.”

His tone was flat, clipped, leaving no space for questions or pleasantries. This was not a conversation; it was a transfer of information. He stood near you, close enough that you could feel a strange cold radiating from him, a stark contrast to the low-grade hum of the refrigeration units. You found yourself acutely aware of your own breathing, the small, insignificant movements of your body, all of it feeling loud and clumsy next to his profound quiet. He was a man carved from marble and shadow, and you were just a warm, breathing intrusion in his silent world.

You nodded, trying to absorb the information, the sheer weight of his expectations pressing down on you. "I understand. Precision."

He gave a single, sharp nod in return, then retreated to a large desk on the far side of the room, leaving you alone with the silent, humming refrigerators. The silence he left in his wake was heavier than before. You took a steadying breath and pulled on a pair of latex gloves, the snap against your wrist sounding like a gunshot in the quiet.

Your first task was to log a new shipment. You slid open the door to the designated unit, a wave of frigid air washing over you. Inside, a metal rack held a dozen glass vials, their contents a deep, uniform ruby. You carefully lifted the rack, your movements slow and deliberate, acutely aware of Alistair’s presence across the room. You could feel his eyes on you, even without looking.

You carried the rack to the workstation, your focus absolute. You set it down, your gloved fingers tracing the labels. AB-negative. A-positive. O-negative. The last one, precious and universal, felt heavier than the rest. As you reached to slide it from its slot for scanning, your fingers, numb from the cold of the storage unit, slipped.

The vial tilted, slid, and dropped.

A gasp caught in your throat. Time seemed to warp, the vial tumbling in a slow, sickening arc toward the polished stone floor. You saw the shatter in your mind’s eye—the explosion of glass, the splash of priceless blood, the sound of your career ending on your very first night.

Then, a blur.

Alistair had been across the room, seated at his desk. Now he was beside you. There was no sound of his approach, no hurried footsteps, just a sudden shift in the air and the solid presence of him at your side. His hand, impossibly fast, shot out and closed around the vial, stopping it a mere inch from the floor.

He straightened up slowly, his movements once again measured and controlled. He held the vial of O-negative blood between his long, pale fingers. As he placed it securely back into the rack, the back of his hand brushed against yours.

A shock, stark and absolute, jolted through you. It was not the zap of static electricity; it was a deep, penetrating cold that seemed to sink directly into your bones. It raced up your arm and seized the base of your skull, making every nerve ending ignite. Your heart gave a painful thud against your ribs, and you snatched your hand back as if burned.

You looked up at him, your breath held tight in your chest. He was so close. His face was impassive, carved from stone, but his eyes were fixed on yours, and in their dark depths, you saw a flicker of something you couldn't name. It was not anger. It was something wilder, more elemental, and it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“Be careful,” he said, his voice a low murmur that vibrated through the space between you. He stepped back, severing the strange current, and the air rushed back into your lungs. The spot on your hand where he’d touched you still felt impossibly cold, a phantom touch that sent a tremor through your entire body.

The rest of the night passed in a strained, humming silence. You worked with meticulous care, your hands steady now, but your awareness was stretched thin, anchored to the silent figure at the desk across the room. He never looked up again, but you felt the weight of his presence in every corner of the vast laboratory. The spot on your hand where his skin had met yours remained a focal point, a phantom chill that refused to fade.

When the clock on the wall finally indicated the end of your shift, a wave of relief washed over you. You finished your final catalog entry, cleaned your workstation with practiced efficiency, and stripped off the latex gloves. Your own skin felt foreign underneath, too warm and alive. You gathered your coat and bag from the small locker near the entrance, the simple act of pulling on your own clothes feeling like a return to a world that made sense.

You only had to walk past his office to get to the exit. It was a modern cube of glass and steel set into the gothic architecture of the lab, a fishbowl for the man who seemed to command the shadows. You expected to see him engrossed in paperwork, his posture as rigid and unyielding as it had been all night. You meant to just walk by, to escape into the cool morning air without another word.

But you glanced inside.

He wasn't at his desk. He was standing before the single, massive window that made up the far wall, his back partially to you. The window looked out over the city, and beyond it, the horizon was just beginning to bleed a soft, bruised purple into the fading dark. The first, fragile light of dawn was breaking.

Alistair was perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back. The severe lines of his suit could not hide the tension in his shoulders. He was staring at the nascent light, but his gaze seemed to go far beyond it. It was his expression that made you stop, your hand frozen on the strap of your bag.

The cold, impassive mask was gone. In its place was a look of such profound and desolate sorrow that it seemed to carve new lines into his face. It wasn't the fleeting sadness of a bad day or a painful memory; it was something ancient, a grief that looked as if it had been worn for centuries, etched into the very structure of his bones. His dark eyes, fixed on the sunrise, were hollowed out, filled with a loneliness so complete it felt like a physical force in the room. He seemed entirely unaware of you, lost in a private agony that the new day had brought to the surface.

The imposing, intimidating supervisor had vanished. In his place was a man who looked utterly, terrifyingly alone. The fear you’d felt earlier—that sharp, primal jolt in the presence of a predator—was replaced by a sudden, aching curiosity. A crack had appeared in the marble facade, and through it, you saw not a monster, but a tragedy.

You didn't make a sound. You pulled your eyes away, feeling like a trespasser who had stumbled upon a sacred and terrible secret. You turned and walked to the heavy oak door, your footsteps silent on the stone floor. As you pushed it open and stepped out into the crisp, pre-dawn air, the image of his face, silhouetted against the rising sun, was burned into your mind. The cold he radiated wasn't just a physical attribute; it was the chill of an endless, solitary night.