Emerson's senses were on high alert as he felt a subtle change in the air. His brow furrowed in concern as he surveyed the room, trying to identify the source of his subconscious unease. "What's happening?" he asked, his voice betraying a growing apprehension he himself didn’t quite understand.

Catherine's lips parted as though on the verge of responding when her expression suddenly tightened. With the speed of a striking snake, she swiftly delved into her pants pocket and extracted a buzzing phone. "Excuse me," she muttered curtly, swiftly turning away to take the call.

Emerson watched as Catherine's demeanor abruptly changed, and a wave of anxiety washed over him. The bustling speakeasy around him faded into the background as he focused solely on her. His heightened senses picked up snippets of her conversation, but the words were too low and rapid to fully comprehend. His unease grew as he watched her posture stiffen, her free hand clenching into a fist at her side.

That couldn't be good.

His attention was drawn away from Catherine as the commotion unfolding around them garnered his interest more than trying to unsuccessfully eavesdrop. His gaze swept across the dimly lit room, his supernatural senses overloading him with the myriad of subtle details and shifts in the atmosphere. The once overly subdued establishment was now a cacophony of voices reacting to the breaking news about the bill.

A group of humans at the bar argued heatedly, their voices rising above the jazz playing in the background as they debated the merits and risks of reallocating police funds, especially in areas like this. Nearby, a trio of vampires—two women in suits and a black gentleman in business casual—whispered harshly among themselves about how this would impact their sales and nightlife. Their furtive whispers were almost as loud as someone speaking at normal volume to Emerson's heightened senses.

The dozens of other conversations happening around him, much too loud despite the distance, added to the disorienting chaos. Glasses clinked louder than ever, and the mingled scents of fear, excitement, alcohol, and blood filled the air. He found it baffling that he could smell emotions before even seeing someone's face or body language—something that would take some getting used to.

Amusingly, he reflected on this as if immortality and drinking blood were old news. Everything about this new existence was a struggle to adapt to, and he doubted he ever would. At this moment, the noise and emotions created a perfect storm of unease that overwhelmed his newly heightened senses and mind.

An average-looking middle-aged man at the far end of the bar sniffed in annoyance and downed the remainder of his drink before roughly lowering the glass onto the bar top. The abrupt sound drew Emerson's attention in time for him to see the stranger restlessly shift away on his stool with a hard expression. Then, with a swift and commanding gesture, he was enveloped in a surging vortex of black mist that seemingly appeared out of thin air.

Emerson's eyes widened as he involuntarily leaned away from whatever was happening, only for it to already be over the next second. The churning column of shadows descended like a limp theatre curtain, revealing an empty bar stool. The only evidence that the stranger had ever existed was the slightly ajar bar stool and the empty glass on the bar top.

The only thing that kept Emerson from voluntarily checking himself into the nearest insane asylum was a dark, wispy residue that settled upon the countertop and floor, creating an oddly beautiful film that glistened under the low light. A faint scent of bitterness lingered in the air over the space.

Emerson blinked. "Right. So that just happened?" He blinked again and glanced around the room, not even sure what he was looking for anymore.

The patrons remained utterly indifferent as if the extraordinary thing Emerson had just witnessed was merely ordinary. Even the bartender nonchalantly poured himself another glass of an unsettling crimson liquid, its scent permeating the air with the distinct, tangy essence of fresh human blood.

Emerson didn't know what to think anymore. Vampires, nightmares, teleportation, magic—his ability to process the impossible was jammed, overflowing, and downright stalled. He didn't want to think about it anymore. What was the point? What would he get out of it right now? It would just make him pointlessly anxious, and he didn't think there was anything left in this world that could surprise him anymore. He quelled the urge to knock on wood by focusing back on Catherine, whose conversation came to a sudden halt as she frowned in annoyance and waved her hand in the air, then moved to distance herself from the spot from where the man had disappeared, resuming her conversation with a lowered and urgent tone.

'Huh,' a pang of pleasant surprise passed through him. 'She doesn't like the smell.' He told himself to remember that. Plus, her reaction was the only thing that confirmed he hadn't hallucinated the stranger's disappearance.

Actually, now that he thought about it, despite his bone-deep confusion about the intricacies of the supernatural world he’d been forced into, the more time he spent with Catherine, the more he began to understand that she was unlike any other vampire he’d encountered so far. In fact, he was becoming increasingly accustomed to her abrupt mannerisms and occasional mood swings, and, oddly enough, he couldn't help but start feeling drawn to her powerful aura and enigmatic personality.

Yeah. He didn’t know what to think about that. In all honesty, he probably needed someone to talk to when all this was over. But what in the hell did 'over,' mean exactly? It wasn't like his was a curable condition. ...Right? He'd ask about it.

“Yes. I understand, but I have… Yes. Yes… I’m on my way.” Catherine's irritation rang unmistakably clear in her voice. Ending the call, she turned with a sigh. "I need to leave for now," she stated, sliding the phone into a pocket.

Emerson's thoughts suddenly screeched to a halt before derailing into a jumbled mess of words and feelings. "But we... I mean, what about..." The words got stuck, unable to escape his throat. He desperately sought to articulate this weird, unsettling sensation, but the words eluded him, trapped inside his head. It was as if someone had knocked the wind out of his ability to speak. The intensity of his emotions heightened as he realized he would soon be left alone, enveloping him in a sense of vulnerability and exposure that was entirely new to him.

Catherine's words snapped Emerson out of his chaotic thoughts and brought him back to the present moment. "Hey. Relax," she said. "You forget why we're here?"

Emerson felt trapped between a rock and a hard place, unsure of what to do or say. He furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes as if trying to peer through his own mind. "Catherine..." he said, his voice measured and hesitant.

Catherine easily caught Emerson's unusual tone and demeanor, and her face turned serious. "What's the matter?" she asked, locking her steady gaze on him.

Emerson's voice carried a mix of concern and puzzlement as he confessed, "I can't remember why we came here." Panic washed over him as he realized the implications of his forgetfulness. "I feel like I should know, but it's like my memory is blank," he said, growing frustration evident in his voice.

Catherine's expression switched on a dime from confusion, to concern, her eyes softening slightly. "Hey. It's okay. It'll all be okay. We'll figure it out. Just try to stay calm," she reassured him, her voice steady and comforting.

Emerson heard the words. But that was about it.

'Why can't I remember?' He scrambled, sifting through his recollections of the evening. 'We went shopping, took a walk, had conversations... and then the alleyway...' He tried to piece it all together. Everything seemed intact in his memory. So why couldn't he remember? He was sure Catherine would have mentioned it to him at least once, especially when they'd gotten here.

Catherine pressed her lips together tightly, her gaze narrowing with intense concentration as she studied Emerson. She examined his face, looking for any hints of dishonesty or signs of sickness, but discovered only a growing sense of panic and confusion. She recognized the genuine fear taking hold in his eyes.

All Kindred would have recognized it.

"I can't remember," Emerson repeated the phrase like a mantra, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation as he met Catherine's gaze, his eyes pleading for understanding. A wave of panic engulfed him as if he had slipped on a steep cliff edge and teetered on the brink of an unfathomable abyss. A constricting tightness began squeezing his chest from the inside.

'What's going on with me? What's happening?' Emerson's internal voice shouted. At this point, he'd seen enough patients throughout his time at the ER to know he was having a panic attack. He would be a fool not to. But vampires having panic attacks? How was that even possible?

"All right, stop. Enough. First things first, you have to relax," Catherine scolded Emerson gently, tilting her head and pondering the situation. She hummed thoughtfully, collecting her thoughts before posing a direct question. "Did this just happen?" Her eyes carefully studied his face, searching for any flicker of recognition or recollection. Despite her firm tone, her voice carried a comforting undertone, assuring him that she was there to offer her support.

Emerson's racing thoughts left him without words, but he managed a faint nod. He leaned back against the bar, gripping it tightly with both hands to steady himself and avoid falling off the stool. The firm touch of the solid, unyielding surface provided some reassurance. Some.

Catherine's lips tightened, forming a pensive line. "Just to be clear, was it when I told you I needed to leave?" she asked, her unwavering gaze remaining fixed on Emerson's face. She wanted to narrow it down to the moment his memory lapse occurred, hoping against her suspicions. But if her assumption was correct, things were about to become significantly more complicated for her.

Emerson's voice carried a shy tone with a hint of embarrassment for relying on someone he hardly knew. "Um, just... It's nothing, I guess I'm just feeling anxious," he confessed, his voice trailing off as he struggled to put his emotions into words. It felt foolish to admit to Catherine that he was wrestling with the fear of being left alone in an unfamiliar place, but he also recognized the value of honesty. The situation was truly frustrating and bewildering to him.

Catherine's expression fell. "Emerson, this isn’t a game," she stated firmly, shaking her head. "I am neither your girlfriend nor your lover, and this is not the time for half-truths or avoidance." Her words carried a sharp and resolute tone while her eyes glimmered with a hint of danger. "When I ask you a question, I expect a truthful and complete answer. So speak," she commanded in a low growl.

Emerson's stomach tightened with a knot of unease in response to Catherine's tone. He understood that he'd made a mistake, and he couldn't fault her for being angry. Taking a deep breath, he endeavored to gather his thoughts. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm sorry," Emerson confessed, his voice resolute and sincere as he nodded slowly. He took a brief pause to regain his composure, closing his eyes and breathing deeply before opening them once more.

As Emerson opened his eyes, Catherine was taken aback by the swift change she detected in his manner. There was a subtle shift as if he had regained his focus and composure. His demeanor appeared centered and in control, accompanied by a distant yet attentive gaze.

"I felt... anxious when you said you needed to leave," he softly began to explain. "Like an anxiousness that I’ve never felt before, ever.” He stressed, sorting through his own emotions as he spoke. “It was strong, Catherine. Like, like a…” He mimed someone punching him in the gut to express the sensation. “Like a fist to the stomach, but up here.” He pointed to his temple, then dropped his hand. “I just, I don’t know what that was. All I know is that I’m scared of being left alone. Terrified, actually," he finished.

“Better.” Catherine approved, though her expression remained frosty. “What else?” she asked.

Emerson calmly met Catherine's gaze. "If I had to put it into words? Vulnerable. Exposed, maybe," he answered, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"Hm," Catherine murmured thoughtfully, keenly studying Emerson. "It's what I thought, then. But why is it only manifesting now?" She added the last part as a soft question, almost to herself more than to him.

Emerson arched an eyebrow. "I think that deserves an explanation."

Catherine crossed her arms. "You're starting to experience the blood compulsions of your clan," she explained. "More specifically, your Sire's clan."

Emerson's voice sounded almost relieved. "So this is normal?"

"Normal? No." Catherine responded, uncrossing her arms and moving closer to Emerson. She took a deep breath and let out a sigh, closing her eyes. One hand rested on her hip while the other reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Running her hand down her face, she peeked at Emerson through the gaps between her fingers.

Emerson felt a pang in his chest when she looked at him like that.

"This is getting difficult. Why couldn’t you be easier?" she rhetorically mumbled through her hand.

Emerson tactfully remained silent.

Letting out another sigh, Catherine lowered her hand and rested it on her opposite hip. "The blood compulsions are inherent to our vampiric nature, and they can be triggered by various factors—stress, fear, anger, or even prolonged contact with humans without feeding," she explained, pausing briefly before continuing. Her voice softened slightly as she added, "The fact that you're experiencing them now indicates that your transformation is nearly finished, and your mind is almost fully adjusted to your new state. It's a good sign, Emerson."

Emerson's eyes flickered with a mix of emotions as he processed Catherine's explanation in silence. It was a lot to digest, but he was relieved to some small degree knowing that this was something most other vampires went through.

He took a moment to reflect and appreciate how strange and outlandish that thought would have been only a few days ago. "Alright," he said slowly, nodding his head. "I suppose that does make sense. But if it's something that happens to other vampires, what exactly is it?" he inquired. "And what can I do to manage it? Is it something I can control?"

Catherine's expression softened further in response to his question. She took a step closer to Emerson, gently placing her hand on his arm.

The touch stirred a fleeting sensation deep within Emerson's mind. In that fleeting moment, he saw another woman looking back at him. But as he blinked, the vision vanished, and it was Catherine once more.

"You feed," she said simply. "It's the only way to satiate the cravings and keep the compulsions at bay. And sometimes, not even then if you’re stressed enough."

Emerson recovered from her touch faster than he thought he would. He didn’t know when or how, but at some point, he’d come to an unspoken understanding that Catherine wasn’t a woman he could easily decipher or comprehend. The best way he could describe his own feelings was like a deep-seated sense of apprehension and reverence had taken root in his heart. He no longer tried to glean any meaning from her actions or mannerisms. Instead, he fixated solely on her words, parsing them with a keenness born of equal parts fascination and unease.

He didn’t like what she said, though. His knee-jerk reaction was strong, despite having already drunk blood—real human blood. It was because of the idea of taking sustenance directly from a living person made him uneasy. Drawing it from a living, breathing human being was an entirely different matter. It had to be. He didn’t know if he had it in him to do so, at least not without preparation. What kind of preparation, though, he couldn’t say.

Emerson valued taking things slowly and adapting gradually, avoiding sudden changes on a mere whim. He recognized this aspect of his personality and understood that overcoming such a mental barrier would require both time and patience. It was a challenge he was willing to embrace in order to fully accept his vampiric nature and gain control over his hunger. He knew he would eventually overcome this significant obstacle, but he would do so at his own pace and in due time. The last thing he wanted was to lose control in a crowded place. If that happened… Damn. He would never forgive himself.

“In other words, you’ve hit vampiric puberty,” Catherine clarified with a straight face, her voice dragging Emerson out of his thoughts.

The corner of Emerson’s mouth twitched ever so slightly at the oddly relatable metaphor. "Okay," he said again, this time with slightly more conviction. "Got it. But how do I find blood… legally?” He asked with some hesitation. “Or without drawing attention?" He followed up, not sure why he felt like that was the most polite way of approaching the topic.

Catherine's lips quirked up in a small smile. "That's where I come in," she said, then her expression changed. “Or, in this case, Jeffrey will be helping you while I go attend to some urgent business. He’ll show you everything you’ll need to become an independent agent and survive in the city on your own. Don't worry though, that's the end goal. I don't expect you to learn everything in a single night. It's a difficult balance that not many achieve, even decades into the fact."

Emerson's mind raced with questions, but he nodded, accepting the immediate need to adapt. "Jeffrey, huh?" he murmured.

Catherine's gaze softened for a moment. "You'll be fine, Emerson. Jeffrey is experienced and reliable. He, more than most, understands the struggle of the transition and can guide you through it."

Emerson took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on him. But Catherine's words, combined with the odd sense of camaraderie he felt with her, gave him a sliver of confidence. "Alright. I'll trust you on this," he said.

Catherine nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, let's get you to Jeffrey."

'Right. So that's why we're here. We were coming to meet Jeffrey and she was going to leave me anyway.' It all came back to him, but that only confused him more. Her leaving him with someone else didn't feel real until she had actually said it outright. Emerson's lips parted before he could marshal his thoughts, and the words slipped out unbidden. "Maybe we should just wait until you have more free time?" he suggested, then inwardly winced at his lack of self-control. 'What in the actual fuck is wrong with me?' He had the urge to bite off his own tongue.

To his astonishment, there was no furious outburst or cold rebuttal. Instead, an expectant pause settled in, a moment of tense silence that enveloped them like a weighty veil.

Emerson steeled his nerves, anticipating what he believed would be Catherine's inevitable outburst fueled by her notorious short temper.

Yet it never came.

The absence of a response was more telling than any words.

Catherine shrugged with a knowing smirk. "It’s fine. You’ll get used to it, and it should pass. Should," she emphasized.

Emerson didn’t like that implication.

“Right now,” she continued, “you need to learn the ropes. You can't always rely on me to hold your hand, as much as you may want that.” The corner of her mouth turned upward.

Emerson wisely bit back an instinctual retort on the tip of his tongue.

Catherine continued speaking. "Jeffrey knows this city like the back of his hand, and he’ll show you where to find everything you might need. And I really do mean everything." She gave him a small smile. "I'll be back sometime later tonight. In the meantime, listen to what Jeffrey has to say and learn as much as you can. I'll find you when I'm done.”

Emerson drew in a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest slowly ease. With an effort of will, he quieted the tumultuous emotions churning within him. "Yeah. Okay," he said, nodding. "I'll do my best.” He nodded again.

There was a weight of responsibility that settled heavily upon Emerson's shoulders, a sense of obligation that he couldn’t ignore. But he would rise to the occasion, he told himself, no matter the cost. He was a man of his word, and he wouldn’t break his promises lightly.

“Good. And here, take this.” Catherine reached into her back pocket and removed a worn flip phone, offering it to him. Just as he reached out to receive it, she swiftly withdrew her hand. “This is a burner phone,” she stated, skeptically observing him. “You familiar with them?” she asked.

Emerson shrugged nonchalantly, his hand retreating as a tinge of annoyance flickered within him. "Not really," he admitted. "But I have a general idea," he added, attempting to convey some confidence in his voice.

"I suppose that's better than nothing," Catherine begrudgingly acknowledged, her skepticism slightly diminishing. "A 'burner' is essentially a temporary prepaid mobile phone. It's meant to be discarded at your discretion and doesn't leave behind much traceable information about the calls or texts made with it. Understand?"

"Sure, that makes sense," Emerson nodded. It truly did make sense to him. Growing up, he had seen numerous shows and movies featuring characters on the run from authorities or engaging in secret communication with those phones. He always wondered if that was a real thing or not. Apparently, it was.

"Good. Now, as a general rule, it's important to avoid using your real name or any personal information when setting up the phone or communicating with others," Catherine emphasized firmly, as though he’d already gone against her advice despite not having moved a finger. "And please, be extremely cautious of your surroundings when making or receiving calls," she added with a touch of exasperation.

“Got it. No personal info, and be discreet.” Emerson quickly summarized.

"By the night, I do believe he's catching on. What a remarkable concept," Catherine dryly remarked with just a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

Emerson felt the weight of her words, understanding the importance of caution and secrecy in his new life. He accepted the phone, slipping it into his pocket with a determined nod. "I won't let you down," he promised, meeting her gaze with a newfound resolve.

"See that you don't," Catherine replied, her expression softening slightly.

Emerson didn’t have a chance to respond before she delved into the next part of her explanation. "And if the time comes to dispose of the burner, there's a right way to do so. You need to remove the SIM card and break it or grind it into dust. Scatter the ashes into a trash compactor if you have to," she explained, her voice solemn and serious. She turned the phone around and removed the back cover to reveal a flat rectangular battery. "For this particular phone and most burner phones, the SIM card is located behind the battery pack and is relatively easy to remove. I won't demonstrate it right now since there are a few important numbers saved on the speed dial, including mine. Get the picture?" she asked, sliding the cover back into place with a satisfying click.

"I understand," Emerson nodded in affirmation. Then, a trace of incredulity crept into his voice as he questioned, "And is it really that serious?" He couldn't help but wonder if these extreme precautions were really warranted. After all, it was just a phone call, right?

Catherine's lips pursed, her brow furrowing in response. "Absolutely," she replied firmly. "I won't delve into the specifics tonight, but let me emphasize this: we're not always the hunters out there." Her words carried a dreadful weight of caution.

Emerson took a moment to process the ominous chill that crawled up his spine.

“So, don’t get careless out there. And to help with that,” Catherine’s tone changed back to normal. “Once you’ve removed and broken the SIM card, you put the battery back in, turn on the phone, navigate to the settings, find the factory reset, and hit it. Got it?” she asked.

“Got it,” Emerson nodded.

"And once it's reset," she demonstrated by closing the flip phone and holding it up in an open palm, "you break it." Catherine slowly closed her slender fingers over the phone, mimicking the act of crushing it in her grip.

Emerson's eyebrow arched in surprise. ‘SIM card, factory reset, and breaking the damn thing? That felt like well and truly overkill,’ he thought to himself. ‘But it also sounds like there are people out there who actively hunt vampires and track their movements through modern tech?’ As these thoughts raced through Emerson's mind, he realized that being a vampire was going to entail far greater dangers than he’d anticipated.

The notion of constantly navigating through perilous situations and being hunted was unsettling, to say the least. It was crazy to think he couldn’t even go to the police or tell his friends and family about it. Instead, what it came down to in the end was that his previous beliefs, simplifying the challenges he would face to merely evading the authorities and finding blood, were superficial and lacked a deeper understanding of his new reality. The gravity of the unknown began to truly sink in, and his overall attitude grew somber.

He silently promised himself to approach everything from now on with caution and to follow Catherine’s advice to the letter.

What else could he do? Be his own person? He didn’t feel like he knew himself anymore to confidently go that route. A sense of uncertainty and self-doubt washed over him. The internal struggle between maintaining his sense of individuality and the overwhelming need for guidance and protection left him feeling adrift, unsure of what he should do next.

Thankfully, Catherine seemed to beat him to the existential punch. "I can sense your hesitation," she remarked. "But this is important, Emerson. Extremely important. Promise me you’ll always do this with your burner. Always," she emphasized, her gaze fixed on him with a mix of seriousness and concern.

Emerson's expression turned resolute as he looked into Catherine's eyes. "I promise," he solemnly swore, his words carrying deep sincerity. He genuinely meant it. Despite not fully comprehending the intricacies or reasons behind the precautions, he understood the gravity of the situation and its significance. Especially since they were on the same side... He hoped.

Catherine observed Emerson's expression closely as he made his solemn promise. Seeing his determination and sincerity, she nodded curtly in approval. "Good," she acknowledged, her tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. “Then, this is for you,” she extended the phone once again, this time allowing Emerson to take it without pulling it away.

"Thank you," Emerson softly expressed, his gratitude genuine as he pocketed the phone.

"Don't mention it," Catherine replied, her tone kind. "Now then, good luck- and be nice to Jeffrey," she added with a mock admonishment. "No sob stories this time, and make sure to keep your dinner down," she playfully advised. With a gentle pat on his shoulder and a wink filled with unspoken encouragement, she swiftly turned on her heels and disappeared, as if evaporating into thin air. Just like that, she was gone, leaving Emerson with a mix of anticipation, curiosity, and a sense of camaraderie that he had most certainly not been expecting.

‘How does she do that? And what was all of that about?’ Emerson absentmindedly wondered, his gaze fixated on the place where she’d stood less than a second ago. His impression of Catherine was growing more muddled with every word she spoke. First, she'd almost shot him dead when he'd randomly popped into her apartment. Then, they'd gotten along well enough, all things considered. And now? He wasn't exactly sure where they stood.

Then, he had a less-than-constructive thought. ‘Will I ever be able to do that?’ He wondered. But that sense of wonder was quickly washed away beneath a rolling tide of emotions. He was alone now. Again. Or rather, as alone as one could be in a semi-crowded speakeasy barroom. Which, as it turned out, was pretty damn alone. Despite constantly telling himself not to fall into the same trap, he couldn’t shake a nameless sense of loss. It was strange grappling with the weight of his own insecurities and anxiety, especially now, when they felt more poignant than ever and were also a side-effect of juvenile vampirism...

He still almost couldn't believe that he was seriously having those kinds of thoughts. Not to mention it was all apparently vampire hormones—whatever those were.

'It's like a bad coming-of-age vampire romance drama.' He ruthlessly suppressed the emotions, and gave himself a good mental slap across the face. ‘Now, where am I supposed to find this guy? And does he know where to look for me? I mean, he should, given that Catherine had setup the meeting but...’ Emerson wondered, allowing his gaze to wander.

It didn’t take long.

A newcomer entered the speakeasy through the same entrance that Emerson and Catherine had used. This individual was a man with a distinctive look, sporting a funky patterned t-shirt beneath a loosely fitting coat that complemented his dark jeans. The most striking aspect, however, was the pair of shining ivory sneakers adorning his feet, radiating a mesmerizing glow that seemed to illuminate the entire room.

The man's gaze swept across the room in an overt manner, moving from one face to another as if trying to find someone amidst the crowd.

As Emerson observed the man's conspicuous search, a silent plea echoed in his mind. ‘Oh please, don't let it be this guy,’ he thought to himself. The man's vibrant and extroverted attire profoundly clashed with Emerson's preference for a more understated presence in the room. He didn’t like attracting people’s attention. And this guy’s clothes screamed, “Look at me!”

Plus, this time, Emerson was more consciously aware of his passive perceptions and couldn’t hear a heartbeat or breath coming from the guy. So, unless Emerson was hallucinating, the man was clearly a vampire. Odds were he wasn’t here for the gaudy music or the television.

But, as though the universe had personally heard his desperate plea, as soon as the man saw Emerson, he grinned widely and started walking over.

‘Shit,’ Emerson swore to himself. Despite his reservations, he put on a polite smile and raised his hand in a welcoming gesture, signaling the man to approach.

"Hey there!" the man greeted, his infectious smile on full display as he positioned himself in front of Emerson. "You must be the man, the myth, the legend, Emerson! Am I right?" he inquired, his tone brimming with enthusiasm and curiosity. The exuberance and volume of his words drew a handful of looks that made Emerson want to collapse in on himself.

But, paradoxically, he couldn’t find it in himself to be outwardly annoyed. He almost immediately liked the guy. Weird.

“Ha-ha, stop—Catherine’s really been talking me up, huh?” Emerson laughed lightly.

Jeffrey's smile broadened in response to Emerson's engagement, appreciating the reciprocation of energy. "Like you wouldn't believe, my friend," he chuckled, extending a hand in a friendly greeting. "Name's Jeffrey; it's a pleasure to meet you."

Emerson reached out and firmly grasped Jeffrey's offered hand, returning the gesture with equal firmness. "Emerson. Likewise," he replied, nodding with a faint smile.

"Excellent. Now then, may I?" Jeffrey asked, gesturing towards the vacant barstool beside Emerson.

Emerson scooted back slightly, making room for Jeffrey to take the barstool beside him, and once again faced the impressive wall of blood and booze behind the counter. “Be my guest,” he gestured with a welcoming motion.

"Why, much obliged," Jeffrey responded graciously, settling himself onto the barstool. He seemed extremely at ease—more so than Emerson had expected. But then again, even Emerson hadn’t been exactly sure what to expect. It certainly hadn’t been this. Nevertheless, he found that he surprisingly didn’t mind Jeffrey’s company.

"You know, you're not what I expected," Emerson admitted, deciding to express his honest thoughts. He sensed that Jeffrey was the type of person who wouldn't mind such candidness.

Jeffrey smiled at Emerson's comment, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah? What were you expecting? Tall, dark, and handsome?" he quipped playfully. "Well, you sure as hell have that department covered," he added, giving a light-hearted compliment.

Unsure how to respond to the straightforward compliment, Emerson opted to laugh it off in good spirits, hoping to shift the conversation to another topic. Thankfully, Jeffrey seemed to pick up on the cue and smoothly transitioned to another subject.

"So, I hear that you're in desperate need of a tour guide," Jeffrey remarked, gesturing for the bartender's attention. As the bartender approached, Jeffrey turned to Emerson.

"Desperate? Is that right? Is that the word she used?" Emerson responded, feigning a mixture of indignation and disbelief.

"With excruciating decisiveness, I'm afraid," Jeffrey replied with a smirk, matching Emerson's playful tone.

"Well..." Emerson's voice trailed off, the smile on his lips fading slightly as he found himself getting caught up in his own thoughts and the reality of his situation. "She isn't entirely wrong, I guess," he admitted, his tone carrying a hint of vulnerability.

Jeffrey nodded understandingly, his demeanor softening. "It's okay to need help, Emerson. We all do at some point."

Emerson appreciated the sentiment.

Jeffrey couldn't help but smirk. "Hey, come on now. Don't worry; we've all been there," he reassured Emerson. "But trust me, once you know where to look, it's not so bad. You just need to know the right people. Lucky for you, I've got the looks, the brawn, and the brains," he proclaimed grandly just as the bartender approached them.

Emerson offered an awkward chuckle.

“What can I get you two?” the bartender casually asked in a low voice.

"Mm, yeah, you got any middle-aged A-positive?" Jeffrey inquired, specifying a preferred blood type with a touch of nonchalance.

Emerson blinked.

"Sure thing. Male or female?" the bartender responded, matching Jeffrey's casual tone. He swiftly turned around, his attention focused on the array of crimson bottles lining the wall as he parsed through the labels with a finger.

"Eh, surprise me," Jeffrey waved off the bartender's question. He then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, and turned his attention to Emerson. "What about you? What's your poison?" he asked.

It took Emerson a moment to realize that Jeffrey's question was directed at him. "Oh! No, I'm good for now, thank you," he replied with a polite smile, declining the offer of a drink.

Jeffrey shrugged. "Suit yourself. Doesn't matter anyway, I suppose. It'll be our first stop," he remarked.

Before Emerson could delve further into the topic, the bartender returned, placing a plain whiskey glass on the counter. From a wine bottle with an unusual rose label, he poured a deep red liquid into the glass. The scent of the blood wafted over them, almost intoxicating, causing Emerson's hunger to surge. Yet, he ruthlessly suppressed the primal urge, maintaining control over his cravings. The sight and aroma together were almost too much, so he turned his head away. He could handle the smell, but both seeing and smelling made it way more difficult.

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Jeffrey picked up the glass and took a sip. He made a face, gave a small cough, and smacked his chest with a hand. “Good stuff!” he said with a strained smile, acknowledging the bartender.

The bartender rolled his eyes and put away the bottle. "Let me know if you need anything else," he stated with a hint of indifference. Then, he moved down the bar to attend to the other customers.

Jeffrey cleared his throat and put down the glass. "So, first things first,” he said, turning to Emerson. “If you're going to make it in this town as a wicked creature of the night, you need to know all the right places. The best spots for blood, the dealers with the best equipment, the people who can help you out with odd jobs, and, above all else... any guesses?" He leaned in closer, his intense blue eyes fixed on Emerson.

“Um—” Emerson stuttered, caught off guard.

"Exactly! The people you can trust," Jeffrey exclaimed, smacking the countertop with a resounding thud. He swiftly gathered his drink, settling back onto his stool with a satisfied expression. “That’s rule numero uno out here, kid. Trust. Shit’s a priceless commodity.” He swigged some of his drink, relishing the taste before setting the glass back on the counter. A fleeting grimace crossed his face, and he emitted a soft hiss as if savoring the momentary discomfort before it subsided. “Damn. Fucking dishwater.”

Emerson chuckled softly, finding Jeffrey's theatrics oddly comforting. The surreal situation he found himself in suddenly felt a bit more manageable. “Alright. So, what happens next?” he asked.

Jeffrey's grin stretched from ear to ear as he nursed the shot glass. "I'm so happy you asked. We're going to start with the obvious one first." He tapped the stained shot glass with a nail. "Blood."

Emerson focused on the bar top in front of him.

Jeffrey didn’t seem to mind. “Look, I get it, you know? But you need to know where to find it and how to get it without getting filled with bullet holes or bringing down the full weight of the law. You catching my drift?” he asked rhetorically, giving Emerson a side-eye. “And, are you ready for some good news?”

“…Yes?” Emerson's brow furrowed.

Jeffrey's smirk widened, radiating a mix of excitement and mischief. "You’re damn right you are! Just look at you, a stunning young vampire—the world is your oyster," he remarked, applauding lightly and tapping his fingers on the countertop. Leaning in closer, he adopted a conspiratorial tone. "Let me clue you in on a little secret. Sin City has no shortage of establishments that cater to our... unique requirements." He exclaimed in a hushed shout, his hand gesturing animatedly as he searched for the right term. "Naturally, I'll show you all the convenient hotspots." With a swift motion, he drained the last remnants of his drink and emphatically placed the empty glass upside down on the counter.

Jeffrey then delved into his coat pocket and briskly laid a crumpled twenty-dollar bill on the counter, which the bartender swiftly snatched up.

Jeffrey clicked his tongue in annoyance, wearing a disgruntled expression, and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "Fuck. All right, time to hit the road," he grumbled. He agilely slid off the bar stool and smoothed out his coat. "We don't have all night."

Emerson followed suit, placing a hand on the countertop as he pushed his stool back. "Yeah, sure thing," he nodded, about to hop off when Jeffrey let out a low whistle.

"Damn, man. Nice ring. Where'd you get it?" he asked, sticking his hands into his coat pockets while eyeing it appreciatively.

Emerson's blood ran cold as his eyes fell onto the silver ring sitting on his finger, its smooth surface glimmering under the bar light. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "What, this thing?" he asked with a half-hearted chuckle, raising the hand to casually showcase the ring. "It's nothing. Just a little keepsake." He didn't know why that was the first excuse that popped into his head.

"No kidding. Well, she's one lucky lady, eh?" Jeffrey laughed. "All right, then. Time to get to it?"

Emerson extended an arm towards the only doors in the place. "After you," he said.

Jeffrey reached up and tipped the brim of an imaginary cowboy hat with a roguish grin. "Don't mind if I do!" He pivoted on his heels and strode across the room.

Emerson silently followed, the small smirk on his lips gradually fading with each step as his thumb absently fiddled with the ring.

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The duo emerged onto the dilapidated streets of West Vegas, the atmosphere heavy with an air of darkness. As they strolled along, Jeffrey played the role of an enthusiastic tour guide, gesturing toward notable landmarks and peculiar establishments that appeared as nothing more than shuttered boxes. Each place, apparently, had a little something distinct for a scavenging vampire bent on exploration and need.

"Well, let’s get to it," Jeffrey said, stretching his arms as they finished making a small circuit of the neighborhood. "We need to hit up a blood bank. I know a great place. Discreet exchanges, and my contact knows how to keep their mouth shut."

Emerson's voice wavered with uncertainty. "Are we seriously robbing a blood bank?"

Jeffrey shot him a sidelong glance, his expression a mix of surprise and offense. "Absolutely not!" he retorted, seemingly insulted by the mere suggestion. "We're heading there to procure legally obtained blood. And yes," he added, anticipating the question, "there are a few establishments in town that adhere to more... traditional methods of selling blood."

Jeffrey's expression darkened. "They're dangerous places, Emerson," he cautioned somberly. "They disguise themselves as purveyors of the finest, freshest blood. They claim it's the best. And they'll go to great lengths to convince you of their authenticity, but..." Jeffrey trailed off, shaking his head in disapproval. "The shit they do? The shit they make others do for them? It's barbaric. No, actually, it's worse than that: it's fundamentally wrong. Those... Ha, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth to even call them Kindred, but, those Kindred are too far gone and beyond saving if you ask me. And don't even get me started son how their publicized actions spit on the reputation of our entire society in the eyes' of mortals. They're setting back vampire and human relations by the decades." Abruptly, his downcast demeanor shifted, and he coughed awkwardly, his expression softening considerably. “Ha-ha, but, uh, yeah. That’s that, and also neither here nor there, my bad. Got me standing up on the soapbox for that one, eh?”

Emerson shook his head reassuringly. "No, no, it's alright," he replied, offering a comforting smile. "I may be a young guy, but I know perspective is important. Life taught me that. And I have no idea about any of this." He used a finger to gesture to the surroundings. "So, any info, is good info, right?"

Jeffrey waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, spare me the flattery. I know my little rant probably sounded dull and nonsensical. I'll let you make your own judgment about those places. I'm not here to impose my views on you," he admitted, tilting his head slightly. "Well, at least I try not to judge too harshly."

"Moving on," Jeffrey swiftly transitioned, diverting his attention. "After we've sorted out your blood supply, there's a guy on the east side of town who specializes in crafting custom-made weapons. We'll definitely need to pay him a visit and get you something for protection," he suggested as they passed a shady alley. "He's also got an impressive selection of top-of-the-line gear. And if you find yourself in need of some quick cash, there's a fence a few blocks away who deals specifically in stolen goods."

Emerson abruptly halted, a look of unease crossing his face. "Weapons?" he echoed. "You mean like guns?" The idea didn't sit well with him at all.

Misinterpreting Emerson's wide-eyed expression, Jeffrey mischievously seized the opportunity. "You bet, kid," he responded with a sly grin. "Big, impressive guns, if you've got the cash," he teased, striding forward. "And that's not all! Daggers, throwing knives, combat knives, tomahawks, hunting knives... you name it!" Jeffrey enthusiastically listed off a variety of weapons, his excitement evident as he practically bounced on his heels.

Emerson's mouth opened and closed several times before he sighed with resigned defeat. He then lightly jogged to catch up with Jeffrey, who had already started crossing the street.

----------------------------------------

As they strolled along, Jeffrey nonchalantly explained the process of a typical transaction with a blood bank, emphasizing the importance of always conducting these exchanges discreetly, outside of the public donation process. He even shared a set of guidelines to follow in case someone ever attempted to manipulate or deceive him.

"The first and most vital step is to establish a connection with an employee from the blood bank," Jeffrey began. "Preferably, this should be done through trustworthy recommendations or discreet referrals from reliable Kindred. The initial contact is crucial, as it sets the groundwork for all future interactions, particularly if only that specific employee is involved in the scheme."

Once a potential employee is identified, it’s essential to establish secure communication channels. This could involve exchanging discreet messages or arranging meetings in safe, confidential locations. Ideally, the employee should have previous experience or a good understanding of the sensitivity surrounding the matter, recognizing the importance of private meetings with the buyer. These private encounters typically take place in secluded areas within the blood bank or nearby alleys to ensure confidentiality and minimize the risk of exposure. Anything else should be met with a healthy dose of skepticism.

Jeffrey stressed the remarkable instincts of Kindred when it comes to detecting danger and prioritizing self-preservation. Sometimes, these instincts are so profound that even the vampire themselves struggle to fully comprehend them. A good rule of thumb for blood trades? Trust your instincts when discussing meeting times, locations, and any offers of bribes. If the deal seems too good to be true, it probably is.

He also warned about the importance of cautious communication. "Think of it like those online companies that say, 'Our employees will never ask for your password.' Similarly, if a 'dealer' tries to extract additional information beyond the meeting time and place, it's a red flag. In such cases, it’s essential to dispose of and destroy the burner phone. Frustrating, but necessary for safety."

"It's really that dangerous?" Emerson asked. "Why does it feel like I need to navigate the Dark Web just for blood?"

Jeffrey clicked his tongue. "Oh man, you think that's bad? We haven't even scratched the tip of the iceberg."

"I don't think that's the phrase," Emerson responded automatically.

"That's how I do it, friend. Little bit of column A, little bit from column B."

"Never heard that one before," Emerson admitted.

"Well, you're about to hear a lot more before tonight's over. Speaking of which, where was I? Ah, that's right. So..." Jeffrey dove back into his explanation of the blood trade.

"It’s only in private meetings that the specifics of the blood transaction are discussed," Jeffrey continued. "This includes the desired type, quantity, and quality of blood, as well as any preferences or requirements from the buyer. After confirming the details and reaching an agreement, the employee proceeds in one of three ways: immediate provision, if the desired blood is readily available; referral, if they need to direct the buyer to another source; or rescheduling, if the blood isn't immediately accessible. When the specified blood is available, the employee presents the vampire with a simple centrifuge vial containing the blood. Prior to this, the blood undergoes rigorous screening and testing to ensure it is free from diseases and contaminants."

"Is it always like that?" Emerson asked.

"Is it always like what?" Jeffrey threw the question over his shoulder.

"Clean, I mean- it's always sold after being tested. Like with a phlebotomist?" Emerson wondered how the blood trade could be so extensive. An underground black market for blood coexisting within the normal medical infrastructure? The logistics behind that... Who was overseeing it all? Or did it just operate on its own like a well-oiled machine that couldn’t be stopped?

"You know, it's funny you should mention that," Jeffrey said, a strong wind gusting down the street, billowing out his coat. "The answer is no, my friend. Not always."

"So..." Emerson trailed off.

"So," Jeffrey picked up, "It's called 'dirty' blood, maybe even 'filthy' if you run into some of the upper-class Blue Blood dames at their monthly gatherings."

"That doesn't sound good," Emerson offered, skipping over whatever 'Blue Blood' meant, though he thought he understood given the context.

Jeffrey shrugged, which looked kind of funny with his coat. "It's not exactly good or bad, just risky."

"Risky isn't bad?" Emerson asked.

"It's better than nothing, I can tell you that much," Jeffrey replied.

"You've had it before?" Emerson asked, surprised. He didn't think someone who personally knew Catherine would be in a situation where they had to purchase something as crass-sounding as 'filthy' blood. It even sounded like Jeffrey went hungry on occasion.

"Oh, for sure," Jeffrey said, rolling his shoulders. "It's not great for prolonged meals, but it does the job in a pinch. It kind of tastes like flat soda compared to a fresh, cold bottle."

Emerson's brow rose. That was a really good metaphor. "Damn. Wait, when was the last time you had a soda?" he asked, genuinely curious. It also made him think back to the last time he had a soda with fries and a burger at his local hometown diner. The memory didn't make him hungry, but it wasn't unpleasant either. It was just a gray memory. Stupid hormones.

Jeffrey chuckled. "Oh man, it's been a minute, that's for sure," he said, glancing up at the clear night sky.

The city pollution was sparse over this part of Vegas, and the star-filled sky was beautiful.

"It must have been back in Atlanta, Georgia," Jeffrey mused. "Oh, but you would've loved Dr. Pemberton, Emerson." Jeffrey glanced back with a smirk. "The guy was a certified mad genius."

"Uh-huh, and why would I like that?" Emerson asked.

Jeffrey shrugged. "Dunno, just a feeling. Now... why the hell did we start talking about soda?... Right. Clean blood."

Emerson rolled his eyes and chose to remain silent as Jeffrey continued talking.

Jeffrey resumed, explaining the next step after reaching an agreement. Once the buyer had verified the authenticity and existence of the product, the employee would naturally request payment for the transaction.

"In most cases, these deals go down with cash. It's the preferred and widely accepted form of payment within the underground blood trade," Jeffrey explained. "However, in rare circumstances, for those with influential connections, there might be a slight possibility to negotiate with the person in charge of the blood bank's side business. In such exceptional situations, there could be a slim chance to explore alternative forms of currency or arrangements."

Jeffrey made it clear that this privilege was only extended to individuals who held substantial influence and had established themselves as trusted and respected members of the Kindred community. It wasn't something readily accessible to everyone.

Before Emerson could ask for more details about the "alternate" currency, Jeffrey quickly interrupted, making it clear that such situations would most likely not arise until Emerson had gained significant experience, possibly not even after getting a couple of decades under his belt. It was that rare.

The notion left Emerson silent and contemplative as they walked through the darkened streets.

Meanwhile, unaffected by Emerson's thoughtful silence, Jeffrey enthusiastically carried on with his explanation. The prices for a vial of blood naturally fluctuated depending on factors such as rarity and quality. However, regardless of the specific circumstances, the prices were consistently high, reflecting the inherent danger and illegality associated with the transaction.

Jeffrey included another crucial aspect in the equation. He explained that, apart from the base price of the blood, there would always be an additional percentage fee imposed. This fee would be especially noticeable if someone tried to purchase multiple vials or even an entire bag of blood. And it wasn't something negotiable, not even under extraordinary circumstances.

The implementation of the fee was a patchwork response to the challenge of managing the loss of blood from storage records. The employee responsible for the records couldn't simply erase or manipulate the data continuously. Therefore, the fee became a fixed component to account for this loss, ensuring that all parties involved could benefit from the high demand and limited supply of blood.

Emerson couldn’t help himself anymore and interrupted, asking how the fee benefitted the buyer in this scenario.

Jeffrey paused, then hinted at the presence of a governing body within the traditionalist-conservative vampiric high society. This body utilized the additional fee imposed on blood transactions as a form of tax, which in turn supported the protection and sustainability of the blood trade. It created a self-perpetuating cycle that maintained the security and stability of the Kindred community.

"Damn. That's... wildly complicated, but also rational?" Emerson thought it sounded incredibly similar to a concept he'd learned back in economics. Jeffrey's explanation alluded to the intricate interplay between the vampiric hierarchy, the protection of their interests, and the continuation of the blood trade. Essentially, the additional fee served a dual purpose: funding the governing body's activities and maintaining control over the network of suppliers, distributors, and consumers. It was a complex system that ensured the stability and influence of the vampiric community while simultaneously safeguarding their unique needs and interests. It was a balancing act between power and resources, shielding the Kindred from external threats and maintaining societal equilibrium.

Emerson chose to keep his remaining questions to himself and let Jeffrey proceed with his explanation. He believed it was the most important information at the moment. Moreover, he had a lingering suspicion that Catherine would likely have a deeper understanding of these matters than Jeffrey.

Emerson responded to Jeffrey's explanation with a simple, muttered acknowledgment of "Interesting."

Jeffrey, both surprised and relieved that Emerson didn’t push the topic, happily went back to discussing the blood trade.

Once the payment was completed, the vampire would receive the vial of blood discreetly, without drawing attention from anyone else at the blood bank. The transaction would be carried out quietly, ensuring that it went unnoticed by other staff members or customers present in the establishment. This protected the covert nature of the blood trade and kept the public operations of the blood bank looking ordinary and unsuspecting.

"What stops the vampire from just stealing the vial or ripping off the dealer?" Emerson couldn't help asking. It seemed like both a smart and dumb question. Smart because there was clearly something at play during these deals for the blood trade to have existed for so long, and dumb because he couldn’t figure out what it was. The dealers were human, right? In his mind, it was rock, paper, and scissors. Vampire beats human, right?

Jeffrey grunted. "You'll see."

Emerson fell silent again, mentally berating himself to stay quiet and listen. He felt like his mouth was working faster than his brain. It was annoying and frightening to feel like all his years of emotional discipline and self-control were slowly eroding before his eyes.

But... This wasn't the time or place to focus on such things, so he decided to consider Jeffrey's words.

After the transaction, the employee would take necessary precautions to eliminate any evidence of the exchange, ensuring there were no traces left behind that could potentially expose the vampire's identity or anyone involved. This process involved following strict protocols and paying meticulous attention to every detail to ensure complete discretion. Such professionalism was vital to uphold the blood bank's operations and its role within the blood trade.

Jeffrey likened the confidentiality required in the blood trade to that of lawyers or psychiatrists with their clients. Although there were similarities in terms of trust, discretion, and confidentiality, the consequences of betraying the trust of vampire clients went well beyond the risk of losing a professional license.

For "socialized" Kindred, maintaining secrecy was paramount to their survival. Any breach of confidentiality could jeopardize their existence and put them at risk of persecution, retaliation, or even Final Death. Within vampire society, the consequences for betraying trust and exposing a client's identity were severe. These strict repercussions acted as a deterrent, ensuring that employees fully grasped the gravity of compromising the privacy and safety of vampire clients.

Therefore, the stakes were significantly higher within the vampire world, with the sanctity of confidentiality carrying a weight far greater than that faced by most professionals. Maintaining the trust and preserving the secrecy of vampiric clients was paramount to ensuring their safety.

Jeffrey, seemingly anticipating Emerson's unspoken question, promptly launched into an explanation. He told Emerson that wherever he went, the Kindred community was known for its enigmatic nature and unwavering commitment to safeguarding their personal interests.

Emerson wanted to ask what Jeffrey meant when he briefly mentioned “Clans” but held his tongue.

Jeffrey continued, explaining how they operated in the shadows, relying on secrecy and discretion to protect their existence and preserve their way of life. Their caution bordered on paranoia, and they had a low tolerance for anyone who betrayed their trust. In fact, any breach of trust was met with immediate and harsh consequences. Those who dared to expose the secrets and identities of vampires would face the wrath of the Kindred. The repercussions could vary from being shunned by the community to experiencing direct acts of violence, depending on the gravity of the betrayal and the status of the individuals involved.

For this reason, the blood bank employees who participated in the business were acutely aware of the risks involved and took great care to maintain their secrecy and protect their clients' identities. They understood that their lives were at stake, and they knew that even a hint of suspicion could be enough to put them in grave danger.

Jeffrey's comparison to other professionals was well-intentioned, but it didn’t fully capture the gravity of the situation.

Engaging in this business went beyond risking their professional reputations; the employees put everything on the line, including their safety and lives. They understood the gravity of their involvement and the potential consequences it carried, but they were willing to take those risks. The real question was, "Why?"

Most employees entered the blood trade for the significant financial incentives. The additional income often exceeded their regular salaries by a considerable margin, providing a strong temptation that was hard to resist. This lucrative prospect offered an opportunity for financial stability and an improved quality of life.

But that money came at a steep cost.

Those who participated in the blood trade faced ongoing and heightened risks, including the potential loss of life. Living with the knowledge of their involvement in the underground vampire world meant carrying a heavy burden of secrecy and constant anxiety about being discovered. The ever-present fear of exposure loomed over their daily lives, casting a shadow on their interactions with colleagues, friends, and even family members. This fear was isolating and mentally taxing, forcing them to constantly watch their words and actions to avoid betraying any signs of their involvement.

Employees engaged in a fragile balancing act, carefully concealing their true affiliations and guarding themselves against scrutiny from both humans and vampires. They had to navigate the intricacies of their double lives, treading cautiously to avoid arousing suspicion or drawing unwanted attention.

Emerson wondered out loud why a blood bank employee would willingly put themselves, their colleagues, and the entire business at risk. To him, it seemed like a selfish and morally wrong choice.

Jeffrey calmly explained that despite the risks, the involvement of blood bank employees in the blood trade was necessary and financially beneficial. It served as an essential component of the broader blood trade operation, catering to wealthy clients and ensuring the continued operation of the blood bank for the benefit of the general public requiring medical treatments.

He acknowledged Emerson's perspective but emphasized that people engage in various activities for a multitude of reasons. Each individual had their own motivations and circumstances that influenced their decisions, even if they carried risks and moral implications.

"I suppose. So, it's a give and take? An exchange?" Emerson eventually asked skeptically, his distaste evident. The idea of an employee willingly jeopardizing lives for personal gain didn't sit well with him.

"More or less, yes," Jeffrey nodded in agreement.

They continued walking in silence for a whole street before Emerson, with a questioning look in his eyes, turned to Jeffrey and asked, "Can I ask you something?"

Jeffrey turned his head back, a slight smirk forming on his lips. "Go ahead."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Emerson questioned, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "It seems like way more information than I need, don't you think?" He was curious about Jeffrey's motive for divulging such extensive details and wanted to grasp the underlying reason behind his willingness. It couldn't have just come from Catherine's favor or whatever, right?

Jeffrey's smirk turned into a wide smile that reached his eyes. "That's all?" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. He motioned for Emerson to walk alongside him as they continued down the street. "I'm sharing all this with you because I like you, Kid. Well, that and your new boss asked me to show you the ole' ropes."

“Yeah, sure,” Emerson nodded. Then his eyes widened. "Wait- boss? What do you mean?"

Jeffrey raised an eyebrow, sneaking a sideways glance at Emerson while keeping up their pace. "You don't know?"

Emerson shook his head.

Jeffrey sighed. "Christ, why do they never know? Listen, Em- can I call you, Em? Alright listen, Em, what's your take on her?"

"What? Catherine, you mean?"

"Woah, now. First name basis already, huh?"

"Well, yes? And hey! It's not like that!"

"And I'm guessing she even lets you call her that."

"Is it really that weird? Like some kind of uncultured vampire-thing?"

"Oh? And what gave it away?" Jeffrey mused.

"Look, man. I might have been born yesterday, but I'm not that dumb... I'm pretty sure I'm missing something based on your tone." Emerson finished in a raised voice to be heard over Jeffrey's uproarious laughter.

"Ah- Phew, that was funny, dude! Alright. Fair enough, kid. Fair enough. And to answer your question no, it's not weird. At least not between partners."

"Oh don't do that, stop. It's not like that- you know it's not like that! You're just messing with me."

"Oh? And you're sure?" he questioned, his tone bordering on skeptical and curious, but his eyes twinkled with humor.

"I think so?" Emerson lamely replied. He still had so many goddamn questions about all of this.

"Mhm. Thought so," Jeffrey nodded. "But hey, at least you're not lying about it. And you know, ladies like an honest man," he added with a playful tone.

"Psh. Guess I've got that going for me, then," Emerson gave a semi-amused chuckle, appreciating Jeffrey's attempt to lighten the mood but also wanting to move on.

Jeffrey noticed Emerson's reaction and decided to shift gears, focusing on the seriousness of the situation. "You see, the reason I'm giving you all this information is that you come across as someone who's well-educated but lacks real-world experience," Jeffrey explained. "Out here, you need street smarts, not just book smarts. This isn't like going into a regular convenience store, my friend. Actually, there's nothing damn-near convenient about it at all. It's a whole different ballgame."

“I didn’t think it was,” Emerson quickly defended himself.

Jeffrey noticed Emerson's defensiveness and quickly reassured him, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, no need to take it personally," he said in a soothing tone. "I'm not underestimating you at all. It's just important for me to make sure we're on the same page and that you're fully prepared for what we're about to do. I've got your back, buddy." He flashed a reassuring smile, hoping to ease any tension between them. "Besides, you might not have said it, but I can see it in the way you carry yourself," Jeffrey said, pointing to his own body to emphasize his observation. "That street-smart edge, that confidence—it takes time to develop. But don't worry, Kid. That's why I'm here."

Emerson found himself speechless at Jeffrey's remark. Yet, deep down, he knew it was true. He hadn't faced the same hardships and struggles as those who grew up on the streets or less fortunate Kindred groups. He realized there was still a lot he needed to learn and experience to fully understand the intricate layers of their world, as well as the complexities of the human world.

Reflecting on his past, Emerson realized that he'd led a pretty normal, if somewhat sheltered, life, both during his upbringing and throughout his education. And while he was no stranger to familial tragedy, he'd always had the support of friends, a comfortable home with a roof over his head, and access to basic necessities like food and water.

So, he couldn't deny the truth in Jeffrey's words. Although his own transition into becoming a vampire had been far from conventional or painless, according to Catherine, it still seemed preferable to the hardships and destitution faced by those living on the streets.

The thought made him pause- he didn't appreciate the growing selfishness within his own thoughts. That wasn't like him. Right?

He chalked it up to hormones.

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The Desert Life Blood Bank had seen better days.

The building was a squat, single-story structure made of faded brick, with a neon sign on the roof that flickered intermittently, spelling out its name. The paint on the walls was peeling, revealing layers of older, darker colors underneath. A rusty chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter, topped with razor wire to discourage any unwanted visitors.

The front entrance was a set of double doors with a faded red cross painted on them. Above the doors, a smaller sign read "Desert Life Blood Bank - Donate Today!" in bold, block letters. But the entrance was poorly lit, with just a single flickering bulb in a rusty metal sconce to illuminate the way.

To the right was another building, taller and more abandoned in appearance. A small alleyway cut between the two buildings. To the left of the entrance was a small parking lot, with a few battered cars parked haphazardly in the spaces.

A few people loitered around the lot, smoking and chatting quietly. They looked like they belonged in the neighborhood—rough around the edges, but not necessarily dangerous.

Despite its shabby appearance, there was a steady stream of people coming in and out of the blood bank, suggesting that it was still a popular destination for those in need of a quick buck or a chance to do some good.

“This is the place?” Emerson asked in a low voice as the pair stood across the street.

“Sure is. Something wrong?” Jeffrey asked, a knowing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Emerson cleared his throat and straightened up. “No. No, I’m just— it looks different, is all.”

Jeffrey raised an eyebrow, his expression curious. "Different? What do you mean?" he asked, following Emerson's gaze toward the building across the street. He squinted, trying to discern any changes or unusual features. "Is something off about it? Did it undergo some renovations or...?" He trailed off, awaiting further explanation with a mock-serious expression.

Emerson let out a sigh, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Look, I don't mean to come across as an asshole, but it's just..." He paused, searching for the right words to convey his thoughts.

“Different from what you expected?” Jeffrey prodded, a grin tugging at his lips.

Emerson nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, different from what I expected," he admitted. "I guess I had this image in my mind, you know? Something darker, maybe more... I don’t know. Supernatural? But this... it's not what I imagined." He shrugged, realizing the futility of trying to fit reality into his preconceived notions. "Guess I need to adjust my expectations."

Jeffrey chuckled, waving it off. “Don’t worry, kid.” He replied in a hushed tone. Then, he gestured subtly toward the building across the street. "The place may not look like much from the outside, but trust me, it’s one of the best spots in town for what we need." He glanced around, ensuring they weren't drawing any unwanted attention. "Just follow my lead, stay alert, and remember, discretion is key."

Jeffrey's reassurance brought a sense of relief to Emerson. He nodded, his gaze focused on the unassuming building across the street. "All right, I trust you," he replied.

"That's the spirit, kid," Jeffrey whispered. "Remember, we've got each other's backs. Stick close, watch your surroundings, and don't let your guard down. If all goes like it normally does, it should be as easy as pie." He glanced at the entrance of the building. “Ready?” He asked, looking over at Emerson.

Emerson nodded.

Jeffrey grinned and started making his way across the road.

Emerson silently followed, dozens of questions bouncing around in his head.

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The reception area was cramped and dimly lit.

The room was small, with low ceilings and dingy white walls. It boasted a mixed collection of plastic and metal chairs, carelessly organized in rows as if abandoned in haste. These meager seats, worn and weathered, barely offered any respite to the weary souls occupying them.

Men and women slouched in their seats, their expressions etched with weariness. They looked like they were about to fall asleep, their energy fading like flickering candles.

The air hung heavy with a musty aroma, a peculiar blend of antiseptic and lingering remnants of stale cigarette smoke. It clung to the worn upholstery of the chairs, swirling in the currents of tepid air that circulated within the cramped space.

Positioned at the far end of the room was a diminutive reception desk, where a tired-looking receptionist sat behind a glass window. The window was slightly scratched and smeared with fingerprints, and a small sign above it read "Donate Here.”

The receptionist wore a faded pink uniform and had a name tag that read "Maria." She was busy typing away on a clunky computer, occasionally glancing up at the donors waiting in the room. Her gaze was distant, lost in a world of endless paperwork and mundane routines.

To the left of the reception desk, a vending machine stood like a silent sentinel. Its dimly illuminated display showcased an array of tantalizing treats, from sugar-laden confections to savory snacks. It hummed quietly, occasionally dispensing a can or a bag of chips.

A small television clung to the wall, its screen flickering with a muted infomercial that preached the virtues of blood donation. The soundless images showcased smiling faces and heartfelt testimonials, urging viewers to embrace the altruistic act of giving blood.

Emerson's eyes darted around the reception area, taking in the scene before him. He couldn't help but feel a knot forming in his chest, an uncomfortable tightening that seemed to mirror the somber atmosphere that permeated the room.

The sight of weary donors, their tired expressions, and slouched postures struck a chord within him. He could sense the palpable weight of their suffering and the weariness that accompanied it. It was a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the struggles that so many endured on a daily basis.

An overwhelming sense of empathy washed over Emerson, stirring a mix of compassion and unease within him. He felt the intense urge to help, to do something, anything to alleviate the burdens of the people in the room, but he also grappled with the realization that he really couldn’t do much in his current position.

His fingers twitched anxiously as he struggled to reconcile his newfound existence with the pain he was witnessing. It was a tumultuous mix of emotions, and he couldn't help but wonder how he would navigate this delicate balance between his own needs and the suffering of those around him.

The resonance of a familiar sentiment gripped Emerson's heart, similar to the encounter with the building full of the homeless that he and Catherine had stumbled upon. Memories of Catherine's resigned words echoed in his mind, reverberating with a sense of helplessness. ‘That's just how it is,’ she had said. ‘You can't do anything to change it, and neither can I. Not even my father could.’

Within the reception area of a dilapidated blood bank, enveloped by the desolation of poverty and the weight of suffering, Emerson's contemplative gaze absorbed the somber scene. It was in this humble setting that a profound resolve emerged. At that moment, a silent vow took shape within him, a pledge born from the depths of his conscience.

Jeffrey gently nudged Emerson’s shoulder, bringing him back to the moment.

Emerson gave him a silent, questioning look.

Jeffrey confidently smirked and said, “Come on.” He then approached the tired receptionist.

Emerson followed closely behind, stopping behind and beside Jeffrey.

The receptionist quickly noticed their presence; her weary eyes flickered with a mix of exhaustion and curiosity as she peered through the partition. The hum of the vending machine in the corner provided a monotonous soundtrack to their conversation.

Her tired eyes dropped back down to the paperwork spread across her desk, the pen in her hand moving mechanically across the page. The monotony of her work was evident in her disinterested tone as she asked the question. "Have you completed the donation paperwork?" she inquired, barely lifting her gaze from the sea of tiny print before her.

"Oh, excuse me," Jeffrey began, his voice soft but assertive, "I’m sorry to interrupt you, but we’re not here to donate. Is, um, Austin working tonight? He’s an old friend, and we were hoping to drop by on his shift."

The receptionist's gaze shifted at the question, momentarily diverting her attention from the stack of paperwork on her desk. Her tired expression morphed into a puzzled frown as she searched her memory, her voice laced with fatigue.

"Austin? Oh... uh, I think he called in sick today," she replied, her words accompanied by a stifled yawn. "I'm sorry, but he won't be here."

Jeffrey's brows furrowed ever so slightly, a subtle sign of disappointment. He leaned closer to the glass, lowering his voice. "Are you sure? We were hoping to speak with him tonight because we’re just passing through. Any chance he might be available tomorrow or something?”

The receptionist sighed wearily, her tired eyes meeting Jeffrey's gaze. "I'm really sorry, but I highly doubt it. Austin’s been working a lot lately, and he sounded like he needed the day off to rest," she explained in a sympathetic voice. "He's been pushing himself too hard, you know?"

Jeffrey nodded, his expression shifting from disappointment to understanding. He glanced back at Emerson, who stood nearby with a kind, slightly awkward smile plastered to his face.

Jeffrey almost rolled his eyes. 'What was Catherine thinking with this guy? Can't he act natural for two seconds?'

Jeffrey cleared his throat. "Thank you for your help," he said in an appreciative tone. "We'll figure something out. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

The receptionist offered a tired smile before returning to her stack of paperwork.

The pair walked back out through the small reception area. As they stepped outside, the cool night air enveloped them in a nice change of pace from the stagnant air inside the blood bank.

Emerson took a deep breath, the city's sounds and smells filling his senses. The flickering streetlights cast long shadows that danced on the cracked street pavement.

Emerson turned his gaze towards Jeffrey and posed the question, "So, what now?"

Jeffrey arched an eyebrow, his eyes shifting to meet Emerson's. A mischievous smile danced on his lips as he replied, "Now we know the deal's set. Come on."

“Wait, what?” Emerson blurted in confusion, automatically following as they both turned and headed toward the dimly lit alley adjacent to the building. “You mean…?” His question trailed off.

Jeffrey nodded in agreement. "That's right," he confirmed, emphasizing his words by making a quotation mark gesture with his fingers. "Austin's 'sick leave' means he's available for an exchange."

Emerson furrowed his brows, his face reflecting his pensive state. "But how many times can he do that?" he inquired, seeking clarification. "Doesn't he eventually run out of sick days? And aren’t there a lot of vampires who need blood?"

Jeffrey expressed his approval with a playful tone. "My, my, what good questions," he remarked, yet didn’t answer.

Emerson wasn’t going to push the topic if Jeffrey clearly didn’t want to discuss it. But he also couldn’t help but wonder why that was such a sensitive question.

Soon, they arrived at the narrow alley, finding themselves enveloped in darkness. The feeble glow of the flickering streetlamps provided only meager illumination, leaving the surroundings shrouded in shadows. The air hung heavy with the unmistakable scent of decay and dampness.

"Showtime," Jeffrey whispered, his voice barely audible, as he ventured further into the depths of the alley.

Emerson, finding himself in this situation all too frequently, obediently trailed behind.

Their footsteps resonated against the walls adorned with graffiti, creating an echoing presence in the confined space. As the distant sounds of the city receded, an eerie silence took its place, permeating the surroundings. The only audible sound was the steady drip of water coming from somewhere deeper within the alley. Simultaneously with Emerson's perception of a faint heartbeat, a figure materialized from the shadows. Despite possessing exceptional night vision, the person's presence seemed almost elusive, barely discernible within the darkness to Emerson. He didn't understand what was happening. He was both surprised and confused that he couldn’t see the person’s face. It was like an opaque film of cellophane covered their face. Even their clothes were muted and difficult to discern with any immediate accuracy. But, based on their figure and stature, it was a man.

Jeffrey approached the man with a nod of acknowledgment; his voice lowered to a measured tone. "Thank you for accepting the short notice tonight."

The figure nodded in agreement, his baritone voice barely above a whisper. "No problem. You know the deal."

"I certainly do, old friend," Jeffrey replied. He delved into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small wad of cash. Right in front of the man, he began to count it out like a fast-forwarded scene in a movie.

Emerson was momentarily enthralled with the neat little trick before remembering where they were and attentively observing the stranger and their surroundings. He allowed his nerves and senses to naturally heighten as he gave into all of the background noise prowling on the edges of his perception.

"And a little extra," Jeffrey casually remarked, smoothly sliding an additional bill into the already substantial handful of cash. He then extended his hand, offering the bundle of money to the other man. "For your trouble," he added.

The blood bank employee, whom Emerson presumed to be Austin, accepted the cash and stowed it away. From within a pocket, he retrieved a small vial, its contents concealed by the opaque glass, and presented it to Jeffrey in a similar manner.

"Always a pleasure doing business."

A blend of apprehension and anticipation surged through Emerson. He couldn't shake off the feeling that something about this situation felt off, even though he couldn't quite pinpoint the source. He just felt weird watching this.

Jeffrey effortlessly accepted the vial, smoothly stowing it away in his jacket pocket. "Same to you; take care of yourself."

The man effortlessly disappeared into the shadows, blending in seamlessly with the darkness. "Always." The parting word, barely audible, lingered like a gentle whisper, intimately entwined with the grimy walls of the alley.

Jeffrey shifted his attention to Emerson, his voice firm. "All right, let's go," he directed, guiding Emerson out of the alley and back onto the sidewalk.

Emerson was surprised. He hadn’t expected it to be that simple. But there it was.

"Right then," Jeffrey straightened his jacket and retrieved the vial, extending it towards Emerson. "This is for you."

Emerson warily regarded the vial, his gaze lingering on it before tentatively reaching out and accepting it. A surprising surge of hunger coursed through him, even though the scent was entirely sealed off. The mere knowledge that he was holding blood triggered a primal response within him, which caused a sense of unease to settle in. That couldn’t be good.

Emerson consciously pushed the sensation aside, intentionally distancing himself from the hunger that had momentarily overwhelmed him. He swiftly tucked the vial into his pocket without glancing at it, finding that the simple act of removing it from his hand was sufficient to diminish the intensity of his cravings. The experience struck him as intriguing, albeit unsettling. It served as a stark reminder of the parallels between his current situation and the interactions between addicts and their suppliers. The resemblance was disconcerting, and a little too real. He didn’t like it.

Emerson paused for a moment, contemplating his next words. "Um...?"

"Yeah, what's up?" Jeffrey responded absentmindedly, kneeling on the sidewalk as he retied his shoelaces.

“I’ve got a question.”

"Yeah? Well, make it quick. We've still got two stops to make, and the sunrise isn't exactly waiting for us," Jeffrey mumbled, scraping something off the front of his shoe with a nail.

"Yeah, of course. It's quick," Emerson said. He gestured towards the alleyway with his thumb, then quickly scanned their surroundings. People lingered near the front of the building and in the parking lot, smoking and engaging in their own activities. However, no one seemed to be close by, at least not within normal earshot. Emerson turned his gaze back to Jeffrey, his expression curious. "I couldn't see the guy's face at all. Or even his clothes. Could you?" he asked, genuinely puzzled by what he had seen.

Jeffrey rose to his feet, smoothing out his coat sleeves. He contemplated Emerson's question before responding. "That's a tough one, honestly. Do you want the long answer or the short one?" he asked.

Emerson raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Short one for now, please," he replied. He wanted a quick answer for once tonight and could always follow up with more questions later.

"Right then. Hm," Jeffrey began, running a hand through his hair and scratching the back of his head. "Long story short, that was magic. And before you ask: No, it's not uncommon for blood trade representatives to possess magical trinkets like that one," he explained.

Emerson felt overwhelmed by the questions swirling in his head. It helped that he’d seen people literally vanish before his eyes, like demons. It was unnerving yet comforting to have some context for anything magical.

Before Emerson could articulate one of the hundreds of questions buzzing inside his head, Jeffrey abruptly pivoted and began walking along the sidewalk. "Let's get a move on, kid. It's time to get you a gun fit for a man," he declared proudly.

Emerson's eyes widened in surprise. "Wait, what?" he exclaimed, rushing to catch up.