Earth looks human—until you learn what's been living under its skin.
It's Darkmoon Year 377. Vampires and werewolves still exist, technically. We just do it quietly now: under streetlights, under CCTV, under rent.
As for me?
I'm "a student."
Not because I love school—because my face is permanently sixteen. If you look sixteen long enough, people stop asking questions and start handing you timetables.
By day, I attend lectures and take exams like a normal teenager.
By night, I do government work for the hidden races.
I'm a cross-species liaison—translating threats into polite emails, passing messages between clans, and scrubbing supernatural messes before humans notice.
In other words, I'm a civil servant—on a salary so low it's practically a curse.
So I also write bizarre horror stories online to pay for being alive.
Not "make myself alive." I tried that phrasing once. It didn't land.
Tonight, my two jobs collide.
Miles's blood tastes bad—
as bad as his taste.
He grabs my laptop with both hands, suddenly desperate, suddenly polite.
"Just give me one more chance," he says.
I smile.
Then I tear his throat open.
No warning. No hesitation. No drama—just a clean, final rip.
His voice dies first. His eyes follow.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, slow, satisfied.
God. That feels good.
I inhale. Deep. Like I'm tasting the whole room.
Then I open my eyes.
Miles Quinn is still there.
Alive. Upright. Loud.
Still flipping my pages like he owns my rent.
I'm sitting perfectly straight, knees together, laptop held with both hands, smiling like a broke girl with manners.
I deepen the smile.
I hate him.
---
**Clifton Gate Studios** looks expensive from the outside.
All glass, clean brick, minimalist lobby.
Inside, it's still a student residence: cheap hallway carpet, motivational posters, and a lift that smells faintly like energy drinks and regret.
My editor, **Miles Quinn**, loves this place.
Not because he's a student.
Because he's not.
Miles is the kind of man who dropped out of grad school, moved into the "creative industry," and has been living off the idea of his own potential ever since.
Living in a student building keeps him close to campus, close to "youth culture," and—most importantly—close to his authors: college students who are cheap, eager, and easy to overwork. Like me.
It's an editorial decision.
His studio apartment is neat in a curated way: one designer lamp, one leather chair, one shelf of books that have never been reread.
---
On the wall: framed prints, framed quotes, framed self-importance.
On the highest shelf sits his crown jewel—an engraved trophy:
**BEST LITERARY HORROR AWARD**
It shines like it is the one paying rent.
He flips through my manuscript.
One page.
Two pages.
Then he closes it with the soft finality of a judge.
"It's still not enough," he says.
I keep smiling.
"Not enough?"
"Too calm," he says. "Too… bland."
Bland.
I blink politely, as if he's discussing soup.
"Your vampires feel like neighbors," he continues. "They have jobs. They pay bills. They complain about public transport."
I nod.
"Yes. That's because they do."
He waves it away. "No one reads vampires for realism, Roxie."
"What do they read it for?" I ask, sweet.
He leans back, delighted to explain the world to me.
"Humans read monsters to satisfy themselves," he says. "Fear, desire, power—whatever. Vampires, werewolves, witches. Tools."
Tools.
Right.
He taps my laptop.
"You're writing as you *care* about them."
"I do," I say.
He laughs once, sharply. "Don't."
Then he starts lecturing.
"Make it bigger. Dirtier. More exaggerated," he says. "Give them what they want. Give them a shameless vampire and a werewolf that's…"
He makes a hand gesture that should come with an age restriction.
I keep my smile steady.
"Understood," I say. "So less… life. More content."
Miles relaxes, pleased with himself.
"Exactly," he says. "Market wants spectacle."
I nod again, perfectly obedient.
Inside my bag, my laptop presses against my hip like a reminder: *rent due soon.*
This month, rent went up.
The bus pass went up.
And last week, my "clean-up department" issued me a warning about fieldwork quality.
One more messy report, one more human noticing something they shouldn't, and I get fined.
With what money?
Exactly.
So I smile. I swallow. I play nice.
"I'll revise," I say.
"Good," Miles says, crossing his fingers. He smiles at me like he's granting mercy. I know you can make it marketable, his face says.
I turn to leave.
Then I pause, looking up at the trophy like I've just discovered religion.
"Oh," I say brightly, "congratulations again."
Miles lifts his chin. Pride rises easily in him, like a trained pet.
"It wasn't easy," he says.
"I'm sure," I say softly.
I step closer to the shelf.
I lift the trophy with both hands. Solid metal. Cold. Smug.
Miles watches, satisfied, thinking I'm honouring him.
I smile.
"Beautiful," I say, "You really deserve it."
Then I adjust my grip.
A tiny twist.
I place it back on the shelf, perfectly upright, shining like nothing had happened.
Miles is already talking again—about trends, algorithms, "what readers deserve."
I pick up my bag.
"Thank you for your time," I say warmly.
"Mhm," he answers, not looking up.
I leave.
Still smiling.
Still polite.