My editor didn't bother knocking on the edge of my cubicle before dropping the printed article onto my desk.

  The paper slid across the wood and stopped in front of my keyboard, the headline staring up at me in bold letters.

  Leader Cazoro: A Rare Look Inside Vampire Leadership.

  I had read it a dozen times already. Every quote. Every sentence. I knew exactly how it sounded.

  Still, the way my editor looked at it made my stomach tighten.

  "Well," he said, crossing his arms, "you certainly got people talking."

  Around us the newsroom buzzed with its usual noise. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone arguing about a headline near the copy desk. It was the normal chaos of a human office, the kind of noise that usually faded into the background.

  Today it felt louder.

  "What are they saying?" I asked.

  My editor turned his laptop toward me without answering.

  The comment section filled the screen.

  Hundreds of responses. Maybe more.

  Some curious.

  Some impressed.

  Some furious.

  Why are we praising vampires?

  This reads like propaganda.

  The city forgot what they are.

  I leaned forward, scanning the screen while my editor watched my reaction.

  "You didn't lie," he said after a moment. "Everything in there is a direct quote."

  "That was the point," I replied quietly.

  He nodded once.

  "Still," he added, tapping the article, "you made him sound like a leader."

  I opened my mouth to respond, but the words never came.

  Because that was exactly what had happened.

  Cazoro had sounded like a leader.

  Calm. Controlled. Certain.

  And I had written exactly what he said.

  My editor straightened, glancing around the newsroom before lowering his voice slightly.

  "Look, the piece is solid. You landed an interview no one else could get. That alone is impressive."

  I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms.

  "Then why do you sound worried?"

  "Because the people who hate him are going to hate you too now."

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  I didn't have time to answer.

  The newsroom went quiet.

  Not completely. Just enough that the shift was noticeable. The way a room changes when someone important walks into it.

  Conversations lowered. Typing slowed.

  My editor turned his head toward the front of the office.

  And then he muttered something under his breath.

  "Well," he said quietly, "that answers my question."

  I followed his gaze.

  Cazoro stood in the doorway.

  He didn't rush. Didn't hesitate either. He simply stepped into the newsroom like he belonged there, his dark coat draped neatly over broad shoulders, his expression calm and unreadable.

  A vampire in a room full of humans.

  No one tried to stop him.

  No one even spoke.

  He walked past rows of desks, the steady rhythm of his footsteps echoing faintly against the floor. His eyes moved across the room once, slowly, taking in everything.

  Then they landed on me.

  The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

  My editor cleared his throat beside me.

  "Well," he murmured, already stepping away, "I'll let you handle this."

  And just like that, he vanished back into the safety of the newsroom crowd.

  Leaving me alone at my desk.

  With the vampire leader walking straight toward me.

  Cazoro stopped beside my chair, glancing briefly at the printed article on my desk before meeting my eyes.

  "You work quickly," he said.

  His voice was smooth, controlled, exactly the same as it had been during the interview.

  "I had a deadline," I replied.

  His gaze lingered on the paper for another moment.

  Then he picked it up.

  For a second the entire newsroom seemed to hold its breath.

  Cazoro read in silence, scanning the paragraphs I had written. When he finished, he placed the paper back on my desk exactly where it had been.

  "You represented my words accurately," he said.

  I blinked.

  "That was the goal."

  "Yes," he said softly, "but most humans would not have done it."

  There was a strange weight in the way he said humans.

  Like the word belonged to another species entirely.

  "So," I asked carefully, "you came here to check my work?"

  A faint smile crossed his face.

  "No."

  He leaned one hand against the edge of my desk, lowering his voice slightly so only I could hear him.

  "I came to thank you."

  That caught me off guard.

  "For... writing an article?"

  "For writing the truth," he corrected.

  Behind him, I could see people pretending to work while clearly listening.

  Cazoro noticed it too.

  His eyes flicked briefly around the newsroom, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

  "Humans are predictable," he said quietly.

  "How so?"

  "They believe every story must contain a villain."

  His fingers tapped once against the paper.

  "And if the villain appears reasonable, they become uncomfortable."

  I hesitated before asking the question forming in my mind.

  "The people criticizing you... does it bother you?"

  Cazoro looked at me for a long moment.

  Then he laughed.

  Not loudly.

  But there was something sharp beneath the sound.

  "Criticism does not bother me," he said.

  His voice dropped slightly.

  "Betrayal does."

  The words settled into the space between us like something heavy.

  I frowned slightly.

  "Betrayal?"

  Cazoro straightened, slipping his hands into his pockets.

  "In every society," he said calmly, "there are individuals who believe they know better than their leaders."

  I waited.

  His expression didn't change, but the warmth had vanished from his eyes.

  "They speak against stability," he continued. "They encourage disorder. They weaken the structure that keeps everyone safe."

  I suddenly understood exactly what he meant.

  "You mean the people who oppose you."

  Cazoro tilted his head slightly.

  "Opposition is natural," he said. "But those who work against the system protecting them..."

  His voice went colder.

  "...are traitors."

  The word hung in the air.

  Behind him, the newsroom noise slowly started creeping back as people returned to their conversations.

  But the moment between us stayed tense.

  "You can't have that," I said quietly.

  Cazoro's gaze returned to mine.

  "No," he replied.

  His tone was calm.

  Certain.

  "I cannot."

  For a moment neither of us spoke.

  Then the faint smile returned to his face, as if a curtain had been pulled back over whatever had just flickered underneath.

  "But your article," he said lightly, tapping the paper again, "helps people remember something important."

  "What's that?"

  "That leadership requires strength."

  He stepped back from my desk.

  And just like that, the darker edge in the room seemed to vanish with him.

  "Thank you, journalist," he said.

  Then he turned and walked out of the newsroom the same way he had entered.

  Slowly.

  Confidently.

  Leaving the humans behind him whispering.

  And leaving me staring down at the article on my desk, suddenly realizing something I hadn't fully understood before.

  Cazoro hadn't just wanted the interview.

  He had wanted the message.

  And now the entire city was reading it.