Home smells like candle wax, old books, and a man trying very hard to be charming.
The lights are on.
That's my first mistake.
My second is realizing my mother has company.
She's on the sofa, legs crossed, posture elegant as ever, listening intently to a man who looks… perfectly human. Early forties, maybe. A little silver at the temples. Good jacket. Careful smile.
Ah.
New boyfriend.
He looks up when I enter, clearly relieved to see me—like I'm proof she's normal. Or safe. Or at least legal.
"You must be her sister," he says, standing halfway, unsure if I'm supposed to be hugged or respected.
"Something like that," I reply.
He laughs, then glances at my mother, warmth and awe mixing in his eyes.
I head straight for the fridge and pull out a bottle of "tomato juice."
Cold. Not fresh. But better than starving.
It comes from the Central Hospital—our little vampire welfare program.
Once our kind accepted we can't hunt the way we used to, the authorities—vampire authorities, obviously—set up the hospital as a farm that keeps us fed and keeps it human-legal.
We get our share by working.
No kids to raise. No unemployment rate to panic about.
Still.
There's always a still.
It tastes like metal and compromise.
That's why some vampires go looking for "supplements."
And that—unfortunately—is how one of my jobs exists.
The boyfriend drifts closer, doing his best to look like family.
"Honestly," he lowers his voice, like he's sharing a secret, "sometimes I still find it surprising. A young, beautiful woman like
**Louise—**why she'd ever choose to date an old relic like me."
I keep my smile in place.
Inside, the commentary explodes.
Old relic?
One random pearl necklace in her wardrobe is older than your grandfather.
Men are always so confident in believing it's them who've graciously descended—
illuminating the shallow lives of younger women with their maturity.
"Oh, not at all," I blink, sincerity polished to a shine.
"Experience and wisdom are the most attractive qualities, really.
Louise has always had excellent taste."
I almost convince myself.
Louise shoots me a look—knowing, amused, and entirely unrepentant.
We exchange a few more rounds of conversational filler:
the weather, my studies, Richard's fascinating observations from the financial sector.
Eventually, Louise mercifully walks him to the door.
The moment it closes, the sweetened air in the living room is violently evacuated.
She turns back, silk robe trailing across the floor.
The warmth drains from her face, replaced by that familiar, mildly evaluative languor.
"You smell like blood," she says.
A pause.
"And… dog?"
"Work," I say, already heading for the kitchen and pouring myself a glass of water.
"Minor complications. Resolved."
"Minor complications that leave you reeking of werewolf," she replies, leaning against the doorframe, eyes sharp enough to dissect lies,
"and wearing lipstick like you lost a fight with it?"
I swipe at my mouth without thinking. There's probably still a trace of borrowed colour—and blood that isn't mine.
"Interdepartmental cooperation," I say calmly.
"It got messy."
Louise snorts and doesn't press for details.
She knows the nature of my work. She also knows that pushing will only get her a sanitized report full of euphemisms.
Instead, she picks up the thick art-history tome Richard left behind—his date prop.
"Honestly, Roxie," she says, flipping a page as if it's an afterthought,
"you should consider expanding your social life.
All that work, those bleak little stories you write, and… trouble—
it's not good for the soul."
She glances at me, cool and casual.
"Find yourself a partner. Even as a distraction."
I escape to my room.
My bedroom is the only fortress in the apartment that is entirely mine.
I close the door, shutting out any follow-up commentary Louise might be tempted to float my way.
The desk is a mess: an unfinished manuscript spread open, and beside it, a government-issued notification blinking patiently—another encrypted report waiting to be processed.
I sit down and reach deep into the drawer for a thick notebook, its cover worn soft with age.
I open it and write with an old-fashioned fountain pen.
Dark Moon Calendar, Year 377.
September 2.
Employment Loss Update:
Writing income (Miles track)— confirmed interruption.
Final payment unlikely to materialize. New publisher required.
(Or a new extortion target?)
Cleaning unit work— critically unstable.
On-site handling rushed. Report not submitted.
Physical altercation with a werewolf detective; traceable evidence left behind.
Formal inquiry and fines expected.
Living expenses continue to rise.
I close the notebook and glance at myself in the small mirror on the desk.
At some point, my brow has knotted itself again.
Unacceptable.
I pull a dramatic, wide-eyed face at my reflection and mime a silent scream.
"Face mask," I order myself under my breath.
I lunge for the storage shelf and tear open the most expensive hydrating repair mask I own, slapping it onto my face with practiced urgency. The cold seeps in, calming my skin—and, hopefully, sealing whatever anxiety is trying to leak through.
Then I move to the bed.
I bend down and heave the heavy mattress up.
Beneath it isn't a bed frame, but a wide compartment lined with old blankets and pillows. My private nest. I've kept it since childhood, back when the idea of an actual coffin gave me issues.
I slide inside and pull the mattress back into place.
Darkness.
Quiet.
The familiar scent of old fabric.
Only then does my body finally let go.
My thoughts, unfortunately, do not.
Without warning, an image cuts through the dark:
the tight space of the lift,
gold eyes,
and the split lower lip—
the heat of Alpha blood spilling out, sharp and wild, charged with thunder and open land.
Nothing like the elegant, refrigerated bags I'm used to.
I open my eyes in the absolute dark and blink.
What am I doing?
Why am I thinking about the blood of an arrogant, rough-mannered werewolf detective named Wolf?
Between us there's nothing but hostility, unfinished paperwork, and a long list of mutual inconveniences.
Nothing else.
Maybe… Louise isn't wrong.
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.
Maybe I really do need something else—
something to dilute this life soaked in reports, rent, and the smell of blood.
Even if it's only in my head.