Vlad had spent centuries perfecting the art of subtlety. As a vampire, blending into modern society required a certain finesse—no more cloaks, no more ominous castles. He’d traded his gothic aesthetic for a crisp white shirt, though his taste for the sanguine remained unchanged.

But tonight, he felt the pangs of purposelessness gnawing at him like sunlight on bare skin. For decades, he had worked as a night shift janitor, cemetery groundskeeper, even a late-night radio DJ. None of it fulfilled him. He craved something meaningful—a job where he could both fit in and be himself.

Then he saw the ad.

WANTED: Blood Collection Specialist – Red Cross.

The words practically sparkled on the screen. Vlad’s cold, undead heart gave an excited thud. His crimson-tinted eyes gleamed as he whispered to himself, “This is it. My destiny.”

The interview was almost too easy.

“Mr. Vladislav Dracovitch, impressive résumé,” said the cheerful woman behind the desk. Her name tag read “Karen.” “You’ve worked nights your whole life, you have experience handling fluids—uh, cleaning them, I mean—and, wow, you’re CPR certified?”

“Indeed,” Vlad purred in his thick Transylvanian accent. “I vant nothing more than to contribute to zis noble cause of… life-giving.” His fangs peeked out for a fraction of a second before he corrected himself. “Life-saving.”

Karen beamed. “Well, we’ve been short-staffed for weeks. Welcome aboard!”

Vlad took to the job like a bat to a belfry. His coworkers adored him. His calm demeanor soothed nervous donors, his uncanny strength made lifting the blood bags effortless, and his ability to “stay awake all night” during double shifts won him the admiration of management.

But Vlad’s true joy lay in the treasure trove of blood donations. So many types—A positive, O negative, and his personal favorite, the rare AB negative. He treated every bag like fine wine, swirling it thoughtfully, appreciating its deep red hue under the fluorescent lights.

Of course, Vlad understood boundaries. He was no savage. He never drained donors directly—that would be unprofessional. Instead, he took small “samples” from the surplus bags when no one was looking. He even labeled the thefts on a mental tab: “A pint for Vlad, a pint for humanity.”

Dark humor became his coping mechanism for the occasional pangs of guilt. During slow nights, he’d lean into the breakroom and quip, “Vould it kill us to get a few more B-positives? No? Just me?”

His coworkers always laughed, oblivious to his little secret.

Trouble arrived in the form of compliance training.

A humorless auditor named Mr. Grayson descended upon the center like garlic on a steak. He wore a suit too tight for his disdain and carried a clipboard that seemed glued to his hand. Within hours, Grayson’s hawk-like gaze landed on Vlad.

“You’ve been logging extra hours near the storage fridge,” Grayson said, eyes narrowing.

“Ah, I am… meticulous about zee inventory,” Vlad replied, his smile revealing nothing. “Vouldn’t vant anyvone tampering vith ze blood, no?”

But Grayson was relentless. Over the next few days, he implemented strict inventory checks and installed security cameras. Vlad’s midnight sampling routine became increasingly risky. He started siphoning off minuscule amounts, reasoning it was “for morale.”

Then, disaster struck.

One fateful evening, Grayson barged into the breakroom holding a bag of blood labeled with a sticky note: “Vlad’s Snack.”

“What is this?!” Grayson bellowed.

Vlad’s coworkers froze. Karen looked horrified. Vlad calmly wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin and gave a sheepish grin.

“I can explain,” he began.

“Can you?” Grayson snapped. “This is gross misconduct. Drinking blood from donations is not only a violation of Red Cross policy but also a potential biohazard!”

Karen gasped. “Wait—drinking? You mean… Vlad’s a vampire?!”

The room fell silent. Vlad sighed, letting his fangs show. “Yes, Karen. I am vampire. But I am also… team player.” He turned to the others. “Have I not covered your shifts? Brought donuts to meetings?”

“You have been very supportive,” one coworker admitted.

“And zee donors adore me!” Vlad pleaded, gesturing dramatically. “Zey say I make blood-giving… less draining!”

Karen stifled a laugh, but Grayson was unmoved. “That’s it. You’re fired. And I’m reporting this to headquarters.”

Vlad’s ruby eyes darkened. “You are making grave mistake, Grayson.”

“Oh? What are you going to do, bite me?”

“No,” Vlad replied, his voice like cold steel. “I wouldn’t drink you—too salty.”

Vlad left the Red Cross that night, his undead pride wounded but intact. He had learned a valuable lesson: the corporate world was a soulless beast, even for the soulless.

As he walked into the moonlit night, a flier fluttered into his hand. “Plasma Center Hiring – Cash Paid Daily.”

A wicked grin spread across Vlad’s face. “Ah, capitalism. We meet again.”

The End