Trying to adjust my everyday life

I never thought learning vampires are real would be followed up by a conversation about shift schedules.

But here I am, adjusting this stupid blazer, holding a spreadsheet printout in one hand and waiting outside Hugh Carter’s office like I’m about to ask permission to use the nicer stapler.

I knock, then open the door a crack.

“Thalia,” Carter says, glancing up over his glasses. “Something urgent?”

“Do you have a minute, Mr Carter?”

He gestures for me to come in. His office smells like coffee and overly ambitious cologne. Carter’s the kind of man who probably used to be athletic—square jaw, thick forearms, confident voice—but now he’s fifty and his body is losing the argument with time. Still, he carries himself like he’s the most important man on this floor.

I sit.

“So,” he says, setting aside a budget report. “What’s on your mind?”

I hesitate. Vampires exist. I was attacked, fed on, half-glamoured by some supernatural sex goddess with fangs… and now I have to ask this guy for morning shifts like it’s some big negotiation. Life is weird.

“I urgently need to change my shifts. Day hours only, at least for the next few weeks.”

His brow furrows. “What kind of shifts are we talking about, exactly? You’re part of the team assigned to the APAC portfolio, Thalia. Most of their contact hours are late afternoon into evening.”

“I know.” I try to make it sound casual, like it’s not a survival tactic. “But something happened last week. I was… assaulted walking home after work. I wasn’t seriously hurt, but—”

(That’s a lie. I {if Darkness < 50}almost{endif}had an orgasm while she was draining me. But sure, “not seriously hurt.”)

His frown deepens. “Oh... I see. Damn. Uhm... Are you filing a report?”

Wow. What a selfish prick, that's his first concern?

“No. I don’t want it becoming office gossip. I just need to avoid evening hours for now. I can still handle everything else. Mornings, early afternoons, weekends if needed.”

He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. That’s his thinking pose. Or maybe his how-do-I-spin-this pose.

“This is going to screw with coverage,” he says. “We’ve already been stretched thin since Claire left. APAC needs hands-on responsiveness. I can’t just shuffle things around because someone had a bad night.”

“I understand,” I say, keeping my voice even. “But I’m asking you to consider it as a safety accommodation. Just for a few weeks.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then his eyes flick to me—not just my face. That pause lingers too long.

“You’ve been reliable so far,” he says slowly. “Hardworking and smart. But this puts me in a tight spot. I’m going to have to rearrange things, maybe call in favors, maybe take heat myself if deadlines slip.”

“I’ll pull my weight,” I say. “I just can’t stay late right now.”

He exhales through his nose, then offers a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well,” he says, “if I do this, I need something in return.”

My spine stiffens. Is this sleazy bastard-

“I mean commitment, of course,” he clarifies, obviously registering my response. “Extra hours on weekends when needed. No late arrivals. And I want you to take more initiative in case new opportunities offer themselves. If I’m going to bat for you, I need to know it’s worth it.”

I nod slowly. “Deal.”

His smile widens—just a little too pleased. “Alright then. I’ll talk to scheduling and send you a draft by end of day.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, voice still warm, but gaze slightly cooler. “Just glad to know you’re okay. We take care of our people here.”

I stand, give a tight smile, and head for the door. Only when I’m out in the hallway do I let my face relax.

Vampires, power plays, psychos in the alleys, bosses who smile too long…

Maybe the real monsters were around even before fangs got involved.

Hours later I'm staring at my monitor, trying to dive into the spreadsheet that’s been blinking at me since morning. Cells. Columns. Forecasting. Numbers that meant something once. But now? They feel like hieroglyphs from a previous life.

I shift in my seat and try again. Budget allocations. Reconciliation errors. Balance projections. My fingers move across the keyboard like muscle memory, but nothing clicks. It’s like trying to paint over a wall that’s already burning.

I can’t stop thinking about it — not just Ariadne's bite, but everything that came after. The memory Lucius yanked out of me like some magician’s trick and everything he revealed to me. The truth.

Vampires fucking exist.

And I’m not supposed to flinch every time the copier makes a sound?

But then, another sound startles me: my phone. A message blinks to life.

Ryan:

Hey. Drink after work? Rusty Anchor. Could use a distraction now that Monica's away.

I stare at it for a moment. Of course Monica asked him to invite me. She still thinks I need supervision, but unknowingly, I do need some company. More then ever before.

Then I type back:

Sure. Just one or two, I have some plans for the evening already.

Naturally, I make up the excuse, saying I got to be home before sunset would make me sound like I'm fucking ten.

The sun is dipping low by the time I reach Rusty Anchor, but I still have about two hours of daylight left. The air’s still warm, tinted gold and buzzing faintly with city noise and old music from the bar's interior. The place hasn’t changed, it's familiar in a way that feels a little surreal now.

This is where it all started, isn’t it?

I step out onto the terrace, scanning until I spot Ryan. He’s already got a beer, half-finished, one arm draped casually over the back of his chair like he owns the place. I walk over, already pulling out my vape.

“Hey,” I say as I step out onto the terrace.

Ryan looks up from his beer with that signature charming smile of his flickering across his face.

“Hey. You came.”

“I said I would.” I exhale slowly, a thin stream of cherry ice vapor forming a cute cloud before dissipating into the pleasant afternoon. The seat opposite him is still warm from the fading sun as I sink into it. “So... Monica's still out of town?”

He nods, lifting his bottle. “Yeah. Conference in Chicago. Five more days, I think.”

“You surviving without her?”

Ryan smirks, tipping his head back. “Barely. I’m here holding down the fort, eating garbage and pretending I know what to do with a laundry machine.”

I let out a low chuckle. “Classic.”

My eyes drift back to Ryan, and I finally notice — he’s dressed up. Well, dressed up for Ryan. Designer pants, crisp fitted button-down, even an elegant tie? Not his usual hoodie-and-sneakers vibe.

I raise a brow. “You meeting someone later?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“You don’t usually show up to casual beers looking like you're about to pitch to investors.”

“Oh,” he says with a quick shrug. “I had a meeting earlier. Just didn’t go home to change.”

A little too fast, maybe. But I let it slide.

He leans forward, rests his arms on the table like he’s easing into something heavier. “So... that night. At the club.”

Here we go. My gut tightens, a reflex I try not to show. I glance away, down toward the street where a bus hums past in slow motion. Another puff of vapor curls from my lips.

“What about it?”

“You told Monica you didn’t remember anything. At all?”

I nod, not trusting my voice yet.

He watches me a beat too long. “That’s kinda... hard to believe.”

My eyes snap back to his. “Excuse me?”

“I mean — come on, Thalia. You didn’t drink that much. Not enough to black out the whole night. I remember everything. You were totally fine when I last saw you.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t forget,” I say, voice a little sharper now. “Everyone’s different. Maybe I hit my limit. Maybe someone slipped something in my drink. I don’t know.”

He leans back slightly, folding his arms. “You sure you’re not just... holding back?”

I inhale again, the cherry ice biting colder than usual. I don’t answer. My silence is its own admission.

“I just...” he starts, but the buzz of his phone cuts him off.

We both glance down.

Vanessa.

No last name or photo. Just that name glowing on his screen like a warning.

He silences the call quickly and flips the phone over. “Sorry. Work.”

“Right,” I mutter. Only… he never does that. The guy answers the phone mid-shower if it rings.

Another silence, this one denser than before. I shift in my seat, watching the last light bleed out of the horizon.

“So,” he says eventually, trying to pick the thread back up. “That night... after the club. You don’t remember anything. No flashes? No weird moments?”

He’s back on it, and he’s digging. His voice is soft, concerned even, but there’s something underneath it — a need. Obviously Monica made him dig into it instead of her. Problem is, I'm not particularly good at lying, especially not to those that know me, and I know he won't stop pushing it.

I press my vape to my lips again, more for something to do than any craving.

“You want another round?” he asks, already half-standing.

And here it is — the moment. I can feel it hanging between us, shimmering and thin. He’s giving me an opening. A drink, a quiet place, a way to talk.

Do I want that? I'm literally trembling from the need to open up to someone, so yeah...

But do I want him to know? Well, I'd rather tell it to Monica, but Ryan probably won't make such a drama out of it as she would.

I know I should listen to Lucius and just walk away before I get pulled into something even messier, but keeping all this to myself is making me want to explode. But maybe I could somehow convince him not to spread this truth further?