Ethan stepped out of the hangar, and every step echoed in his chest with a heavy, muffled thud, as though not one but several hearts were beating inside him.
The door behind him creaked and slammed shut with a metallic clang, cutting off the warm lamplight and the voices of his comrades.
The night greeted him with cold breath and the smell of wet asphalt.
Streetlamps along the road burned unevenly, their light smearing across puddles in cold yellowish-red streaks, as though someone had spilled diluted blood.
The wind, sharp and vicious, tore the last leaves from nearly bare trees; they spiraled briefly in the air and rustled underfoot, each sound seeming too loud, too close to a warning.
Ethan shoved his hands into his pants pockets, feeling his fingers go numb almost instantly.
He reached an old wooden crate by the wall of the neighboring building, once used for unloading fruit boxes, now just this weathered gray seat.
Ethan sat without looking around.
The wood creaked under his weight, releasing the scent of dampness and old paint.
Closing his eyes, he tried simply to breathe.
But instead of silence, Maria flooded his mind again.
Not grand love, not dramatic scenes, just small, almost unnoticeable habits that now cut sharper than any knife.
The way she always tucked her lower lip when concentrating.
The way she laughed, tilting her head slightly back, window light falling across her cheekbones. The way she drew out the ends of sentences when tired.
The way the fingers of her left hand instinctively found his wrist, even when they simply sat side by side in silence.
He remembered holding her hand that last time, her palm already cooling, fingers weakening yet still trying to squeeze back.
He remembered her voice, already almost a whisper, but still hers:
«Don't do anything stupid, okay…?»
His eyes stung.
Ethan clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
Every memory now burned, turning into tiny but searing flames.
Rage grew from that pain like a weed through a crack in asphalt.
«For Maria…», he said quietly, almost soundlessly, staring at the dark brick wall of the warehouse opposite.
The words hung in the air and dissolved into the wind.
He rose slowly.
He checked his bag reflexively, for the hundredth time that evening. Fingers brushed the cold glass of the ampoule in the side pocket, then the old phone.
Everything in place, everything he still had left.
The night around him felt thicker than usual.
Then a sharp jump.
The white screen of thoughts went dark, and before his eyes rose the blood bank.
The building stood like a glass cathedral erected in honor of something ancient and ravenous. Floor-to-ceiling windows, inside muted red light flowing along the walls like arteries.
Neon paths on the sidewalk led straight to wide doors, pulsing in the rhythm of a heartbeat.
Vampires entered and exited, calm, groomed, in expensive coats with identically empty gazes.
Some carried slim leather briefcases, others simply smoked thin black cigarettes, exhaling smoke that smelled of metal and cherry syrup. The ordinariness of their movements frightened more than fangs ever could.
Ethan walked alone.
Bullet, small and warm, hid deep in his jacket pocket, pressed against his ribs.
Her faint vibration echoed in his chest like a second, nervous heart.
«And why did you tag along?» he muttered without looking down, eyes fixed only forward on the glass doors.
No answer came, only a soft, almost sweet buzz in reply.
Heavy footsteps thudded across the marble lobby floor.
The elevator opened silently and took him inside. The cabin walls were mirrored; Ethan saw his reflection, pale face, shadows under his eyes, compressed lips.
A man no longer entirely certain he would leave this place alive.
Third floor.
The corridor was long, white, sterile to the point of nausea. The air smelled of iron, antiseptic, and something cloyingly sweet, like syrup from overripe berries mixed with blood.
The sign on the door read «OFFICE 13» in dark-red, almost black lettering. In the half-light the letters looked written in fresh blood that hadn't yet dried.
Ethan stopped.
He raised his hand.
Knuckles rapped three times on the wooden door.
Knock… knock… knock…
Silence stretched agonizingly long, as though someone inside deliberately counted seconds, savoring his tension.
Then cold red light spilled from under the door, as though an emergency lamp had been switched on inside.
The doors slid apart without a sound.
There he stood.
The same vampire who had tried to snap Ethan's neck with one motion the night before. Now he looked impeccable, black hair slicked back smoothly, skin perfectly clean.
The suit was deep burgundy, almost black, fitted as though sewn directly onto his body.
A smile, slow, predatory, stretching like a crack in ice.
«I'm glad we've finally reached mutual understanding, Mr. Hitcher», he said softly, almost tenderly, as though greeting an old friend at the threshold of an expensive restaurant.
The voice was velvety, but malice hid beneath the velvet.
Ethan felt his fingers go instantly cold. Blood seemed to drain from his hands.
But he forced his face to remain stone. Fists clenched so hard the skin nearly split.
«I came for the money», he said firmly, staring straight into the reddish pupils opposite.
The vampire's smile widened slightly.
«Of course», he replied, stepping aside and gesturing invitingly inward.
«Come in. We have… things to discuss.»
The vampire stepped inside first, not looking back, certain Ethan would follow like a shadow after light.
The door closed behind them almost soundlessly, only a faint sigh of the seal.
Inside office 13 reigned muted crimson twilight, red light pouring from hidden ceiling fixtures, tinting everything in shades of congealed blood and old wine.
«Good boy», the vampire said quietly, almost tenderly, yet mockery laced every syllable.
He didn't even try to hide his pleasure.
Ethan stood on the threshold another second, feeling the room's air wrap around his skin, thick and faintly sweet.
Then he took a step forward.
«Humans rarely understand their place…», the vampire continued, slowly circling the table in the center of the room,
«…but you've finally understood.»
The table was long, black polished wood, almost an altar.
On it stood an electric kettle of matte steel, two thin porcelain cups without handles, and a neat leather folder of documents tied with a thin scarlet ribbon.
Beside it lay a silver spoon, the only item that seemed out of place, inappropriately clean and human.
Ethan took another step. The inner pocket of his jacket shifted slightly; the small, almost weightless recorder blinked with a tiny red light, capturing every breath, every rustle of fabric.
Its work was quieter than a heartbeat.
The vampire drew close, too close. The scent of his skin was cold as metal, mixed with something heavy, floral and metallic at once.
Long fingers settled on the back of Ethan's neck,not roughly, but commandingly, tilting his head forward, forcing him to look straight into the eyes.
The vampire's eyes weren't merely red; they pulsed like two slowly kindling coals. Pupils dilated and contracted in time with an invisible rhythm.
«Calm down», he said quietly, almost a whisper, yet the voice pierced straight into the soul.
«Focus on my gaze. You will tell me only the truth and obey all my desires.»
Ethan let his shoulders drop.
Neck muscles relaxed, eyelids grew heavy. His gaze became unfocused, empty, the perfect mask of obedience rehearsed dozens of times in the darkness of the warehouse.
Inside, everything remained sharp as a blade: adrenaline, rage, memory of Maria, the wisteria he had swallowed an hour earlier, bitter and burning, a thin shield against hypnosis.
The recorder continued capturing every word.
Red light reflected on their faces, turning skin into wax masks.
«My name is Roy», the vampire said slowly, savoring.
«Repeat.»
«Roy…», Ethan answered monotonously, voice stripped of all inflection. The word fell into the silence like a stone into a deep well.
Roy smiled slowly, baring his fangs just enough for them to gleam in the red light.
«Now drink tea with me slowly.»
He released Ethan's neck, turned to the table, and poured dark-burgundy liquid into both cups.
The smell struck instantly,ripe fruit, overripe cherry, iron, cloying sweetness of syrup, and something else barely detectable.
Ethan's stomach clenched, throat reflexively tried to swallow, but he forced himself to stay still.
The wisteria was working.
The bitter aftertaste still lingered on his tongue, muffling the attempt at external suggestion like a filter on a lens.
Ethan took the cup and brought it to his lips. He pretended to sip, lips barely touching the rim, tongue unmoving.
His eyes watched Roy over the porcelain.
Roy drank slowly, savoring, then set the cup down and leaned closer.
«Money, compensation for damages. Her death is on your conscience», he said, driving the words in like nails.
His voice deepened, enveloping.
«Her death was an accident. It has nothing to do with us. Just a small, unfortunate accident.
And you are a random passerby. You know nothing and you don't remember how she died.»
Ethan clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His face stayed blank, eyes glassy, breathing even. But inside something screamed, tore to break free like a beast in a cage.
Every syllable Roy spoke fell on the memory of Maria like acid on an open wound.
The recorder blinked and kept recording.
Roy leaned back, satisfied, admiring his work.
«Repeat», he ordered quietly.
«Her death was an accident.»
Ethan remained silent exactly long enough for the pause to feel natural.
Then, in the same flat, lifeless voice, he said:
«Her death… was an accident.»
Roy nodded.
The smile widened, almost pleased.
«You will forget everything I told you the moment I walk out this door», he said quickly.