Chapter 002: The Fallout

Shawn took the stairs.

Not the elegant marble staircase guests used, but the narrow, fluorescent-lit service stairwell behind the fifth-floor linen closet, smelling of bleach and old carpet.

He couldn’t risk the elevator. The thought of those smooth metal doors sliding shut, trapping him in a steel box with nothing but his own heartbeat and the possibility that the pale thing from suite 512 could be waiting on the other side, with its fangs out, eyes glowing and cock still slick from the dead man. Picturing it made bile rise in his throat.

Better to sprint down five flights on shaking legs. Better to twist an ankle or crack a kneecap on the concrete steps, than stand motionless while something that ancient, hungry and terrifying decide whether to drain him dry or fuck him to death first.

The memory kept flashing: the wet fangs pulling free, blood on lips, trailing down neck, the limp body still impaled, hips twitching in dying rhythm. Shawn’s stomach lurched again. He gripped the handrail so hard his knuckles bleached white, but kept moving.

He burst through the door at the bottom into the dimly lit staff corridor. It was windowless. The hum of vending machines and distant laundry dryers was the only sound. The break room was just ahead: a cramped space with lockers, a sagging couch, a microwave that always smelled like burnt popcorn. Four heads turned with arched brows as he stumbled in.

Tessa—a tomboy, always in cargo pants, leaned against a locker with her arms crossed. Beside her, Ewan and Emma (both his age and night-shift runners like him) exchanged glances. Then there was Alex, his closest friend who went to the same college as him, sitting in the corner chair and scrolling through his phone. He was the last to look up.

They’d all been wondering where the hell he’d disappeared to after the night shift handover. He was supposed to clock out at 8 a.m., change, and head home. Instead he’d vanished all through the night. Now here he was at 6:15, eyes wild, shirt untucked, reeking of hotel lobby coffee and fear-sweat.

“Bro,” Alex said slowly. “You good?”

Shawn forced a nod, his mouth too dry to speak. He pushed past them toward the staff bathroom— a single stall with a flickering bulb, and locked the door behind him.

He barely made it to the toilet before he vomited. Violent, wrenching heaves that brought up nothing but acid and the ghost taste of last night’s shots. His whole nervous system felt miswired, heart slamming against his chest, skin crawling, every nerve screaming, “He saw you, he let you run, he knows your fucking face!”

When the spasms finally stopped he stayed kneeling on the cold tile, forehead pressed to the porcelain rim, breathing through his mouth.

Outside, voices murmured. He flushed, rinsed his face at the sink, and tried to look normal.

Impossible.

His reflection stared right back at him: huge pupils, sallow skin, a tremor in his lower lip he couldn’t stop.

He stepped out. The four of them were still there, now openly watching.

Emma tilted her head. “Shawn, what’s wrong? You look like you saw a ghost.”

He opened his mouth. The words were right there— ‘I did. It's worse than a ghost. A vampire. Fucking a guy to death in 512. Draining him while he came. He looked at me. He saw me! And still let me go!’

But those words died on his tongue. How do you start that sentence? Especially when you’d taken those shots yourself last night, when your head still pounded like a drum, when you weren’t even sure you hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing in some blackout fever dream.

He swallowed. “Just… hungover. It's bad. I fell asleep in a guest room by mistake. Woke up late.”

Tessa snorted. “You? Sleeping in a suite? Rich life, ehn?”

They laughed lightly, in disbelief. Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “Next time my guy, invite us.”

Shawn managed a weak smile. Inside, everything screamed “They won’t believe you. No one will. You sound insane. "Guys there's a vampire on the fifth floor. He killed someone!’, who'd believe that?” He sighed.

The rest of the morning crawled. He avoided the fifth floor completely—refused to run linens up, refused to answer any call that mentioned suite 512. Every time he turned a corner he checked behind him. Every shadow in the hallway felt like mist curling at his ankles. Every time his thoughts drifted back to crimson eyes and blood-smeared lips, a fresh wave of paranoia hit: ‘Can he read my mind? Is he watching right now? Is that prickle on my neck him?’

By the time his relief arrived at 8 a.m., he was vibrating.

In the kitchen on his way out, he grabbed a handful of garlic cloves from the prep station, raw, papery bulbs the chef used for stock. One of the line cooks (Alex again) raised an eyebrow.

“Garlic bread craving?” Alex joked.

Shawn shoved the cloves into his pocket without answering and hurried toward the staff exit.

Outside, the January cold bit hard. He walked fast—no, almost ran—toward the nearest bus stop. Every face in the crowd looked wrong: they were either too pale or too still. Every car that slowed next to him on the sidewalk, felt like it was tracking him. Mist seemed to follow him, clinging to his coat sleeves, whispering against his ears.

He swore he could hear whistles.

He got home—a tiny one-room in a noisy compound off East Harlem. He got in, locked the door, deadbolt and chain. Then he leaned against it, breathing hard.

His phone buzzed. It was his girlfriend, Benny.

“Where are you? You didn’t text after shift. Everything okay?”

His thumb hovered. He flinched at the vibration, like it might burn. Dropped the phone on the bed.

He pulled the garlic from his pocket, crushed one clove between his fingers, smeared the pungent juice on the doorframe, the windowsill. Old wives’ tale. Stupid. But the sharp smell grounded him for a second.

Then the thought came again, circling like a vulture: ‘What if he can read minds? What if thinking about him right now is calling him closer?’ What if he's in a corner, mocking you?’

He flinched harder this time, whipped around to check the corners of the room.

Empty.

But the fear stayed.

He couldn’t go back to who he was before 5 a.m. That Shawn was gone.

The new one sat on the edge of the mattress, garlic stink on his hands, staring at the locked door, waiting for something, or someone, to prove the nightmare wasn’t over.

He pushed himself off the mattress, legs unsteady, and shuffled the few steps to his reading table—a cheap IKEA thing crammed against the wall under the single window. The room smelled faintly of garlic now, sharp and grounding. He dropped into the chair, flipped open his laptop, and waited to gather his thoughts.

The screen glowed blue-white in the dim apartment. He stared at the tuition debt notification at the top of the screen for a second, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, out of some masochistic curiosity he couldn’t name, clicked on the search bar and typed:

‘Vampires real abilities myths’

He paused, finger trembling over Enter. His reflection stared back from the dark glass, his eyes were hollow, skin skin—stretched tight, mouth slack. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Just like Emma had said.

The words echoed in his head: “You look like you saw a ghost.”

He swallowed. Clicked search.

The results flooded in—Wikipedia pages, Reddit threads, occult forums, clickbait articles. He scrolled fast, his heart thudding louder with every line he read.

‘Vampires can track by scent alone, Blood, sweat, fear are only additions.’

‘Some lore claims they read minds, slip into thoughts like smoke.’

‘They dissolve into mist, vanish in shadows, reappear behind you.’

His skin prickled, cold sweat breaking out along his spine. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty room. Nothing. Just the low hum of the fridge and distant traffic outside.

He kept reading.

A thread caught his eye: ‘Are vampires real?’ Top answer, posted three years ago, but the wording felt… personal. Directed.

“Yes, they are real. They walk among us… They feed on blood…clean up after themselves, and if you ever see one (truly see one), they’ll know your face forever. Don’t look too hard. They notice.”

Shawn’s breath caught. The silence in the apartment thickened, pressing against his ears. He felt watched. Not paranoia this time, but real, skin-crawling certainty. Like eyes on the back of his neck.

He thought he heard a low whistle—soft, almost playful—coming from somewhere behind him.

He whipped around so fast the chair scraped the floor. But he saw nothing. Just the closed door, the garlic-smeared windowsill, the shadows pooling in the corners.

At that same instant, his phone exploded with a loud jarring ringtone, the default chime he’d never thought to change.

He jumped, heart slamming into his ribs. The screen lit up with ‘Benny’

He stared at it, breathing hard, letting it ring twice more before he could force his hand to move. He swiped to answer, pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he croaked.

“Shawn? God, finally. I’ve been texting you all day. You okay? You sound… weird.”

He closed his eyes, trying to sound normal. “Yeah. Just… rough night. Shift ran long.”

“I miss you,” she said softly. “We were supposed to talk last night. You never called.”

Guilt twisted in his gut. He’d meant to do it, after the shots, after cleaning the suites, before crashing on some rich man’s couch, and then everything went to hell.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I passed out. Hungover as fuck.”

She laughed warmly. “Come over? I can make that ramen you like. Or we can just… be.”

He pictured her apartment, cozy, safe and normal. Then he pictured crimson eyes in the hallway, mist curling under the door. He was afraid of leading it to her.

“I can’t tonight. Busy. Got some stuff to handle.”

A long pause on the other end. “Okay… Tomorrow at school? Lunch?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow. Promise.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He ended the call. The silence rushed back in, heavier now.

His fingers moved before his brain caught up. He opened a new tab, pulled up the hotel’s employee portal, and started typing.

‘Letter of Resignation’

‘Effective immediately.’

He didn’t care about two weeks’ notice. Didn’t care about references. He couldn’t step foot in that building again. Not with the fifth floor waiting. Not with the possibility that the thing from suite 512 might be leaning against the front desk, smiling politely at guests while waiting for him to clock in.

He hit submit. Confirmation email pinged in seconds.

Then, in the same numb momentum, he opened Indeed. Searched ‘Entry level admin, New York. Applied to three big firms, corporate offices, glass towers, security badges, daylight hours. Places full of people. Places where a monster couldn’t just walk in and finish what he’d started.

He leaned back, staring at the screen. Jobless was fine. Broke was fine. Anything was better than being the next cooling body on luxury sheets.

He pushed his laptop aside and sat straight, staring into space. Outside, the city hummed, sirens, horns, life moving forward.

Inside, Shawn sat very still, listening for another whistle that never came.

But deep within him, he knew it would.

Eventually.