In the dimly lit studio apartment that clings to the back of the vampire bar like an afterthought, shadows dance on the cracked plaster walls. A lone bulb, caged in wrought iron, glows faintly overhead, casting a golden tint across the room but failing to reach the far corners. The air hums faintly—perhaps from the muffled bassline reverberating from the bar below or perhaps from something unspoken lingering in the room.
Anna paces the floor in a restless loop, her combat boots thudding against the scuffed wooden planks. Her movements are sharp—she radiates the kind of energy that threatens to ignite or destroy at any moment. Her hair, tucked into a messy braid, sways behind her like the tail of an animal ready to strike. As she rounds the corner by the old floor lamp for the third time, she pauses just long enough to glare at the uneven row of books gathering dust on the shelf. Her ire deepens.
“I think I punch a hole into the side of the building,” Anna announces, her words clipped and sharp-edged, as if they're hurled to cut through the thick fog of tension in the room.
Phara, perched on the end of the bed with an air of unsettling calm, lifts her head. The pale green glow of her eyes flickers momentarily in the dim light—serpentine, calculating, old. She tilts her head as though examining Anna, and her voice, when it comes, is smooth, unbothered. “You would break your hand in the process,” Phara says, her accent draping her words like a delicate cloak. There’s a weight behind her words—an ancient inevitability Anna doesn’t care to acknowledge.
“So?” Anna retorts immediately, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she turns to face Phara. Her gaze is steady, almost defiant. “It will heal in a day or so.”
Theodore doesn’t stir from the bed, where he sits cross-legged with his laptop propped on a pillow. The blue glow of the screen washes over his face, his glasses catching an occasional flicker of light as his fingers fly across the keyboard. His brow furrows slightly, and his lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t look up. “We would still need your vampire ability to save your sister and the others,” Theodore says in a low, matter-of-fact tone, as if he’s explaining the finer points of strategy rather than addressing Anna’s impulse to destroy property.
Anna exhales sharply, a frustrated sound that flutters the loose strands of hair around her face, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in her step. It barely lingers but it’s there—a split-second shadow that disrupts her fury. She narrows her eyes at Theodore, though he barely notices, still lost to whatever mysteries fill the confines of his screen.
Her voice drops an octave. “Do you know anything?” There’s a rawness to the question now, a thread of urgency straining against the fragile mask of bravado she’s wearing.
Phara’s lips curl into a faint smile—barely perceptible, like smoke dissipating into the air. “It will take him some time,” Phara says serenely, her gaze slipping to Theodore before returning to Anna. Her posture remains languid, unaffected, yet her words settle into the room like dust on an abandoned shelf.
Anna huffs, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she resumes her pacing, boots dragging slightly this time as though the weight of the room—or perhaps her emotions—has doubled. From the window, the murmur of the city seeps into the edges of their silence: distant sirens, the occasional drunken laughter, and something else—something just below the range of human perception.
Anna stops mid-step and narrows her stormy gaze on them, her arms folding across her chest in a defensive stance. She notices the moment—both Theodore’s and Phara’s faces lose the rigidity they’ve carried for hours and instead light up with twin smiles. It’s the kind of smile sharp with a discovery that is too delicious to keep secret.
“Spill it,” Anna demands, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. “What?”
Theodore’s fingers pause atop the keyboard before pointing to the screen. His grin tightens with grim satisfaction. “The entire area—the bar, the alley, even the abandoned storage units next door—is owned by a shell company.” A pause, and then his voice drops slightly, a faint undercurrent of unease threading through. “It all traces back to Melissa Whitefield.”
Anna tilts her head, her brows furrowing in confusion. “Who’s that supposed to be?”
Phara interjects before Theodore can. She toys idly with the gold ring on her finger, her tone dry as the desert yet razor-sharp. “Melissa Whitefield. Daughter of Alexander Whitefield. Do you even keep up with human business scandals?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, her words tumbling forward with a sharp efficiency. “Alexander Whitefield ran the number one cosmetics company about a decade ago. But things got… messy. His family empire started unraveling after his son,”—her tone sharpens on the word “son” like it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth— “was caught knee-deep in illegal testing. It nearly collapsed his company. Feds came in, froze everything. Only reason it stayed afloat was Alexander’s daughter stepping in to clean up the PR mess.”
Anna stiffens, her pacing completely paused now. She pulls her arms tighter, like the chill of the situation has seeped into the room itself. “And you think she’s suddenly gone from smearing lipstick to making people disappear?” she asks, her voice laced with skepticism.
Phara's jaw tightens. “It wouldn’t be the first time the Whitefields played god at someone else’s expense.”
Theodore exhales, adjusting his round glasses with a mechanical gesture. His features curl into something more thoughtful, more careful. “We can’t know for sure yet,” he concedes, his voice soft but pointed. His hands hover briefly over the flurry of data already spanning the screen. “Whitefield's company—their subsidiaries and shell companies—they own real estate all over the city. Hell, we're finding properties in cities worldwide. It’s like trying to map a maze without a starting point.”
Anna taps her fingers against her arm, her sharp nails biting momentarily into her skin. “The missing vamps and homeless,” she says, half a question, half a declaration. She locks eyes with Theodore. “You think this Whitefield lead connects?”
The room seems to hold its breath for a moment. Theodore hesitates, his dark brows furrowing against his pale forehead as his fingers drum against the laptop case. “It’s… possible,” he finally admits, sitting back in his chair, his spine curving into an exhausted slouch. “But when you’re dealing with something this sprawling, this deliberately tangled, it’s hard to connect the dots. Anything we find—we’re pulling it from the shadows they’ve intentionally buried.”
Anna twists her lip, shooting a quick glance toward the curtained window. Somewhere out there in the night, something dreadful is coiling in the underbelly of her city. Something too large, too hidden to easily grasp. Without intending to, her gaze flickers to the bar below her feet. The lively murmur of inhuman voices filters faintly through the floorboards. How many others are in danger—and don’t even know it?
“Well,” Anna says, jaw tightening, decision hardening in her voice. “Good thing shadows are kind of our specialty.”
***
Dingy walls are washed in the soft glow of Theodore's laptop screen, casting faint shadows across mismatched furniture and stacks of books riddled with occult symbols. Theodore sits hunched at the desk, his sharp, focused eyes reflecting the cascading streams of code on the screen as his fingers glide across the keyboard, swift and precise, like a pianist playing a darkened melody. Beside him, Phara leans in with her elbow grazing his, her vibrant presence a stark contrast to the dim, claustrophobic space.
Anna stands by the chipped wardrobe, arms folded tightly, scanning the room as though she’s debating the merit of getting involved in whatever morally gray scheme Theodore and Phara are conjuring. Her curiosity shifts when she notices the spark of glee on their faces—Phara’s expression morphs into that dangerous mix of joy and mischief she wears so well, while Theodore’s lips tug into an involuntary half-grin. Something is brewing. Something big.
Phara bolts upright, her golden curls spilling over her shoulder as she steps toward Anna, laptop in hand, eyes aglow. Her enthusiasm feels radiant and magnetic, pulling Anna into her orbit as effortlessly as gravity. Her voice dances with excitement as she speaks. “Whitefield Cosmetics,” she says, tapping the screen, the glossy advertisement crisp against the backdrop of Theodore’s forged profiles and encrypted files. “They’re taking investor requests for an upcoming networking event at their corporate headquarters. There will be elites from the city there. Movers, shakers. The kinds of people who don’t ask questions when there’s money on the table.”
Theodore doesn’t even pause to comment; he’s already all-in, his brain racing ahead of the conversation. “I can create a fake identity easily,” he says, blue light illuminating the sharp planes of his face. “Give me five minutes. Anna, you’re perfect for the role.”
Anna recoils slightly at the suggestion, narrowing her storm-grey eyes at Theodore. “Why do I have to play the rich bitch?” she quips sharply, dragging out the syllables like they taste bitter on her tongue. “You know I hate these kinds of people.”
Phara rolls her eyes playfully. She crouches on the edge of the bed and pulls Anna into the space beside her, gentle but determined. The mattress protests softly under the added weight, creaking with a tired groan. “Because I have to help Theodore,” Phara reasons, her lips curving into an impish pout. “And you’re the only one who can pull this off without us risking exposure. Your stage presence—that attitude of yours—it’s flawless. Come on, take one for the team.”
Anna sighs, long and dramatic, but her resolve totters as Phara’s fingers brush against her wrist in gentle persuasion. Theodore types furiously behind them, feeding into the mounting tension like a conductor orchestrating chaos. This isn’t just a clever con—it feels dangerous, there’s no denying that, but every word drips with undeniable purpose. This is bigger than a simple grift. Anna can sense it.
“Fine,” Anna finally relents, slumping back against the pillows. Her voice still carries the weight of defiance, but there’s no mistaking the flicker of intrigue buried behind her irritation.
Phara beams, leaning in close to press her lips against Anna’s cheek—a soft, fleeting kiss that feels both comforting and deeply calculated. “That’s my girl,” Phara whispers, her voice honeyed and persuasive. She pulls back just enough to meet Anna’s eyes, her own sparkling with plans yet to unfold.
Anna sits cross-legged on the tattered armchair in the corner, her face a pale mask of concern. Her copper-red hair spills over her shoulders, her hands gripping the upholstery as though it’s the only thing anchoring her to the moment. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. She’s trying not to show how anxious she is, but Theodore reads her too well. “I agree with Phara,” he says without looking up from the screen. “You are the best one for this mission. Just use your... you know, vampire flirting charm power thing.” His voice is light, joking, but his eyes are serious. He cuts Anna a sharp look over the edge of his laptop, and she glares back, unimpressed.
“When is the meeting?” Anna asks, her voice laden with skepticism.
Phara leans against the wall, her arms crossed casually over her chest. Every bit the picture of cool confidence, her stark white teeth flash in a grin that’s a little too mischievous, like a predator sizing up an easy target. “In a day or so,” she says as if they’ve got all the time in the world. Her dark eyes gleam in the dim light, her tone calm, as though preparing Anna for a first date instead of a dangerous encounter with one of the city’s most secretive and cutthroat vampire investment circles.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Anna raises an eyebrow, her brows furrowing into an even deeper worry line. “This is really cutting it close.”
Theodore’s fingers pause for a split second before resuming their rhythm, his gaze locked on his screen. With a casual shrug, he says, “Make sure when you go, you figure out who the top investor is. That’s going to be your key to digging deeper.”
Phara tilts her head, her glossy black hair shining faintly under the lamp’s glow. “Anna will make sure you’re well-prepared,” she says quickly, her voice silky, as though that simple assurance is enough to dispel every far-reaching doubt or danger hanging in the air.
Anna exhales deeply, dragging her hands down her face and then clapping them against her thighs as she straightens up. “Let’s review everything,” she says, her tone sharp and determined now, as though she’s suppressing her anxiety with sheer will and focus.
Theodore, humming faintly under his breath, adjusts the laptop on his knees. “Your profile’s almost done,” he mutters distractedly. “We’ll have to use your father’s trust name for this. It’s the only way to convince them you’ve got the funds. They’ll be much less likely to sniff around your actual finances this way.”
Anna flinches, ever so slightly, at the mention of her mother. It’s subtle, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by Phara, who shifts her weight and softens her cocky demeanor with an undertone of quiet support. “We’ll pull it off,” Phara says firmly. “You’ll pull it off. If anyone can get in and come out with the information we need, it’s you.”
Anna squares her shoulders, her gaze flicking between Theodore and Phara.
***
The sterile hum of fluorescent lights fills the air, casting a harsh glow over the clinical white walls of the medical lab. Glass vials shimmer faintly beneath the artificial light as Dr. Specker methodically moves between workstations, his movements precise, almost uncomfortably so. His white lab coat flutters lightly with each step, its edges crisp, almost as severe as the expression etched onto his angular face. The faint, acrid scent of disinfectant lingers in the air, mixing with the subtle metallic tang of machinery.
Dr. Specker meticulously labels the vials, his pen scratching across the surface as he assigns each sample its code—a sequence of numbers that only he understands. His staff watches in nervous silence as he works, no one daring to interrupt the delicate flow of his precise, calculated actions. Papers shuffle. Machines beep softly. But it is the tension in the room that crowds the senses, threatening to suffocate every occupant.
The nurse standing closest to Dr. Specker grips a vial tightly in her trembling hands, her fingers betraying an anxiety that she is desperately trying to hold at bay. Her cheeks are pale, her lips pressed into a thin line as she struggles to steady herself in front of the man. He lifts his head, something sharp flashing in his eye as his gaze lands on her.
“Put that down before you drop it,” Dr. Specker says, his tone cold enough to halt the movement of her breath.
Her face flushes instantly, the color rising in blotchy patches across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Dr. Specker,” she stammers, quickly placing the vial on the table with unsteady hands. It wobbles slightly before settling. Her gaze flicks to him briefly, but she doesn’t linger.
His lips pull downward into a frown, the kind that feels like it cuts right through her. “I need every one of these samples for the upcoming investors’ meeting,” he snaps. To him, she is a mistake embodied—a flaw standing in the midst of his perfectly curated lab.
“I was just…” she starts, but whatever justification she’s trying to scrape together falters beneath his glare. She rubs her hands nervously, as though trying to rub away her guilt, her inadequacy.
“Trying to ruin my progress,” he interrupts, his voice sharp with disdain. “You’re fired. Tell Melissa I need nurses with steady hands.”
The nurse freezes, stunned for a brief moment before the gravity of his words hits her. Anger and humiliation flood her expression as she turns abruptly, fleeing the lab. Her footsteps echo down the hallway, fading as she disappears into the distance. The other staff, still lingering nervously by their workstations, exchange glances. No one speaks; the room is weighted with apprehension, confusion—fear.
Dr. Specker doesn’t look at any of them. “All of you, out. Now!” His voice slices through the air with the authority of someone used to giving orders that are never questioned.
The medical staff scatter like leaves in a gust, leaving their stations and rushing toward the door in a frantic parade. Their white coats billow behind them as they file out, leaving the lab empty but for the vials, the quiet hum of machinery, and Dr. Specker himself.
He stands there motionless for a moment, the air seeming to thicken around him. One hand rests on the edge of the counter, steady and firm, as his cold eyes scan the labeled vials, mentally assessing what’s left. His jaw tightens, his thin lips pressing together in a grim line. To him, there is no room for error, no tolerance for imperfection. Not in his lab. Not in his work.
The sound of the hallway doors clicking shut reverberates faintly in the distance. Dr. Specker picks up another vial, his fingers hovering briefly over it before carefully marking its surface. The metallic tang of concentration returns to the air, threatening to drown out everything but him and his progress.
The sterile hush of the medical building at night is broken by the hurried slap of shoes against polished linoleum. A nurse bursts into the hall, shoulders trembling, tears streaking her exhausted face. Behind her, the blurry shapes of other staff follow, unsure of what chaos has just been unleashed. The low hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly, irritatingly, above the rising tension, and the heavy atmosphere seems to press with invisible hands on everything alive in this claustrophobic space.
Ding.
The silence is shattered by the elevator. The polished silver doors shudder, then slide open, and there she is—Melissa Callaway, the hospital's no-nonsense administrator, stepping out in her sleek black blazer and sharp heels that snap against the ground. Her voice drips with corporate detachment, cool and self-assured, as she speaks into the cell phone pressed to her ear.
"You mean the trust fund heiress just applied to join the investors' meeting? This is big. Thank you for informing me," she says, as though the chaos swelling in the room is deliberately beneath her notice. She steps further into the hall like a queen surveying her court, utterly unaffected by the whispered panic of nurses and interns who exchange uncertain glances.
The crying nurse breaks forward, her pale face blotchy with distress. "Dr. Specker fired me," she chokes out, her voice cracking, the words spilling out as compulsively as the tears streaking down her cheeks. She looks to Melissa for some vestige of understanding, of humanity. There is none.
Melissa rolls her eyes and mutters a curt, "I have to go." With a practiced flick, she hangs up her call and slides her sleek phone into the breast pocket of her tailored blazer. The air feels colder now, sharper, as if everyone in the hallway has collectively held their breath. The nurse stands before her, trembling, broken, pleading.
"I said Dr. Spe–"
The crack of the gunshot reverberates off the sterile walls like thunder in a church. It silences the soft hum of confusion and tears with horrifying finality. The nurse collapses in one grotesque, graceless motion, crumpling like a marionette whose strings were ruthlessly snapped. Her blood spatters across the unassuming linoleum floor, blooming like an abstract painting beneath the cold light. Her eyes, frozen in shock, remain cracked open.
Melissa stands firm and statuesque, the pistol still raised; she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. Her face is a stony mask, cold and unyielding, her lips curling into a wicked smile. At her feet, the crumpled form of Nurse lies splayed on the cold floor like a discarded marionette. The bright red of blood pools beneath her like spilled wine, shimmering faintly beneath the artificial light.
“Everyone, pay attention this could’ve been you!” Melissa’s voice slices through the stunned silence, cold and sharp like a winter gale. In her hand, a gun glints, steel and death embodied in one compact form. The staff collectively stiffen, the air itself seeming to hold its breath.
***
Norika sat on the edge of the worn-out bed, her eyes fixed on Anastasia as she paced back and forth inside their small, dimly lit cell. The air was heavy with tension, and Norika mind was consumed by the unanswered question that loomed between them.
“The only thing I don't understand is how these assholes are being tipped off on vampires,” Anastasia muttered, her frustration evident in her voice. She glanced over at the iron bars that confined them, as if searching for answers in the cold, unyielding metal.
Norika remained fixated on Anastasia, her gaze never wavering. Anastasia snapped her fingers in front of Norika face, breaking her concentration. “What were we talking about again?” Norika asked, her voice filled with confusion.
“We were trying to figure out how they knew when vampires were leaving the coven,” Anastasia replied, her tone tinged with exasperation. Norika reclined on the bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, lost in her own thoughts.
“You still don't get it,” Norika murmured, her voice barely audible.
Anastasia walked over to the bed, her eyes narrowed in frustration. “Get what?” she demanded, her voice growing harsher.
Norika still refused to meet her gaze, a flicker of fear crossing her features. “I'm not saying it,” she stated firmly, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness.
Anastasia leaned in, gently pulling on Norika arm. “Why not?” she pleaded, her voice laced with desperation.
Norika pulled away, her eyes finally meeting Anastasia's. “Because you'll get angry,” she whispered, her voice filled with regret.
Anastasia's frustration turned to anger, her eyes blazing with intensity. “You not answering my question is making me angry,” she spat, her voice filled with wounded pride.
Norika sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Just talk about something else, or do something else,” she suggested, her voice tinged with resignation.
But Anastasia would not be deterred. She stalked closer to Norika, her voice trembling with emotion. “No, Norika. We need to face this together. We need to find out how they know,” she pleaded, her eyes pleading for Norika cooperation.
Norika gently pulls Anastasia towards the worn-out bed, the flickering light from the cell outside casting eerie shadows on the cold stone walls. Anastasia's eyes are filled with a mix of fear and anguish as Norika speaks softly, “Let's start on the day you were taken.”
With a shaky voice, Anastasia begins to recount her harrowing tale. “I had discovered that vans were watching the coven’s human feeder swap, and I couldn't bear the thought of Blake being taken. I had to protect him at all costs.”
Norika nods, her eyes searching for answers. “So, Blake knew about the human swap too?”
Anastasia hesitates, her gaze falling to the floor as she tears well up in her eyes. Norika reaches out, her touch gentle and comforting. “Who, Anastasia? Who could have betrayed you?’
Anastasia's voice trembles as she whispers, “She would never betray me.”
Norika brows furrow in confusion. “Are we talking about your sweet wife Delilah?”
Anastasia's expression hardens, her voice filled with pain. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”
Norika eyes widen, a sudden realization dawning upon her. “Wait, Anastasia. Seriously, I was thinking it was Blake. What if she is the one that betrayed the coven?”
Anastasia's resolve strengthens, her voice resolute. “If it's true, I will have to leave the coven.”
Norika voice is filled with a mix of concern and disbelief. “You've given up everything to belong to that coven, and now you're willing to just leave? This isn't like you, Anastasia.”
Anastasia's voice quivers with emotion as she speaks. “I can't bring myself to execute someone I love, Norika. If truly Delilah betrayed us, I don't know if I can bear the weight of that decision.”
Norika touch turns even more tender as she runs her fingers through Anastasia's hair. Her voice is filled with a grave seriousness. “It's that serious, Anastasia. We must find out the truth, no matter the cost.”
Anastasia sat on the edge of the bed, her mind whirring with thoughts and suspicions. Delilah's sudden mood changes had been noticeable, especially since the disappearance of the vampires. It was clear that something was amiss, and Anastasia couldn't shake the feeling that Delilah was somehow involved.
Beside her, Norika watched Anastasia's contemplative expression. Sensing the weight of her thoughts, Norika asked, “So, what is your plan now?”
Anastasia sighed, her eyes focused in the distance. “As soon as Anna, gets us out of this cell, I will confront my wife. I need answers.”
A small smile tugged at Norika lips. “Does this mean you will be single again?”
Anastasia's glare pierced through Norika. “Not only will I be single, but I will also be homeless.”
Norika arm intertwined with Anastasia's, a gesture of support and comfort. “You can stay with me,” she offered.
Anastasia's initial instinct was to jerk her arm away, but she couldn't find the strength to push Norika away. Exhausted and tired of being abandoned, she muttered, “Where will you abandon me this time?”
Norika face crumpled with hurt, her eyes brimming with regret. “That hurts, Anastasia.”
A hollow laugh escaped Anastasia's lips. “It's true, isn't it? All I've ever wanted was to belong somewhere.”
Norika voice softened, filled with understanding. “I know, but a coven isn't a family.”
The words hung heavily in the air as Anastasia's heart sank. She had dedicated so much of herself to the coven, yearning for acceptance and unconditional love. But now, faced with the harsh reality. She had placed her faith in Delilah, only to be betrayed.
Anastasia's voice trembled with a mix of longing and desperation as she uttered the words, “I just want to escape from my mind for a moment.”
Norika, still sitting beside Anastasia on the bed, gently released her arm and asked with genuine curiosity, “What does that mean?’
Anastasia's eyes filled with a flicker of vulnerability as she hesitated, knowing the weight of her words. “Just this once, don't get attached,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the hushed room.
A soft smile curved on Norika lips as she leaned closer, her eyes revealing a depth of emotion that spoke volumes. “It's too late for that,” she admitted, her voice resonating with a timeless devotion. “I have been attached to you for centuries.”
As if drawn by an invisible force, Anastasia pulled Norika into a kiss, the world around them fading into insignificance. Norika hand gently cradled Anastasia's head as she lowered her onto the bed, her gaze never leaving her lover's eyes
Caught in the tender intensity of the moment, Norika voice carried a hint of caution. “Are you sure this will complicate our predicament?” she questioned, a note of concern coloring her words.
Anastasia's response was unwavering, her voice laced with a quiet determination. “Yes,” she affirmed.
