Dawn in Crimson

Chapter 4: Dawn in Crimson

The bathroom light buzzed like a dying insect when I flipped the switch.

It was one of those old-school fluorescents—cold, clinical, the kind that made every scar look fresh. I locked the door behind me even though the guys were already snoring. Didn’t matter. Privacy was a habit I wasn’t breaking just because I had roommates now.

The shower was a tiled stall with a rainfall head that looked too expensive for a dorm. I turned the knob. Hot water hit like needles. I hissed through my teeth and leaned one palm against the wall, letting the steam fill the space until the mirror fogged over.

Every movement cost me. Lifting my arm to peel off the hospital gown sent fire through my ribs. Stepping out of the cast brace thing they’d taped on hurt worse. The water turned pink where it ran over the stitches on my leg, then darker where old scars reopened under the pressure—thin white lines across my back, my arms, my thighs. Souvenirs from a childhood that never quite ended.

I stood under the spray until the water ran cold, then colder. No point in rushing. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just needed to be clean enough that no one could smell the hospital on me.

When I finally shut off the tap, the silence was louder than the water had been.

I dried off with one of the fresh towels—soft, stupidly thick—and limped back into the room. I stood before the tall mirror in the dormitory room, The uniforms were still hanging in the closet like soldiers on parade. I pulled one down. Black blazer, white button-down, blood-red tie, dark trousers. The shield emblem stared back at me: bat wings spread, single crimson tear hanging from its belly like it was bleeding for the whole damn school.

Everything fit. Too well. Like they’d measured me while I was unconscious. My fingers worked methodically, buttoning the crisp white dress shirt from the collar down, the fabric still carrying the faint starch from the laundry service .I buttoned the shirt over the worst of the bruises, knotted the tie with shaking fingers, shrugged into the blazer. The cast made the left leg of the trousers bulge awkwardly, but there was nothing to be done about it.

I looked in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

Skinny. Hollow-cheeked. Dark circles that looked painted on. Hair still damp and falling into my eyes. The uniform made me look smaller, somehow—like a kid playing dress-up in someone else’s funeral clothes.

I met my own gaze.

Poker face.

I could do this.

The school phone buzzed on the bed. I picked it up. The screen lit up—no lock screen, no passcode, just a notification:

**West Hall Dining – Orientation Breakfast**

**0600**

**Mandatory for all first-years and transfers**

**Bloodmate Board Preliminary Rankings will be reviewed at 0630**

I glanced at the time. 5:42.

I had eighteen minutes to find West Hall, figure out what “orientation” even meant after missing two full weeks, and sit through whatever fresh hell came next.

I slipped the phone into the blazer pocket, grabbed the crutches Elias had left leaning against the bunk (I hadn’t even noticed them earlier), and hobbled to the door.

The hallway was quiet. Crimson sconces cast long shadows. A few students drifted past—some human, most not. The vampires moved like water; the humans moved like they were trying not to be noticed. I kept my head up, shoulders back, ignored the stares. Let them look. Let them see the new kid with the cast and the number twenty-one burning a hole in his future.

West Hall turned out to be a cavernous dining room on the ground floor, all vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows depicting bats in flight against a blood-red dawn. Long tables ran the length of the room, already half-full. The smell hit me first: coffee, bacon, something sweeter—cinnamon, maybe—and underneath it all, the faint copper tang that never quite went away in a place like this.

I spotted an empty seat at the end of one table, near a cluster of other humans who looked as lost as I felt. I made my way over, crutches thumping, and lowered myself carefully. No one spoke to me. A few glanced at the cast, then away.

A bell chimed—soft, almost musical.

The four queens entered from a side door.

They didn’t walk in. They arrived.

The cowgirl first—boots clicking, hat tipped low, revolver gleaming at her hip. Then the biker—leather jacket unzipped, chains rattling softly. The emo—hoodie sleeves pushed up, black lipstick perfect even at dawn. The suit—tablet in hand, glasses catching the light like knives.

They didn’t sit at the head table. They didn’t need to. Every eye in the room followed them anyway.

The cowgirl scanned the room once. Her gaze landed on me for half a second—long enough for my pulse to jump—then moved on.

The suit stepped to the podium. Voice crisp, amplified without effort.

“Good morning. For those of you who are new or… delayed,” —a pause that felt aimed at me— “orientation covers the core rules of BludHeaven University post-Accords. Integration is not optional. Respect is mandatory. The Bloodmate Board is not a game. It is a contract. Rankings reflect compatibility, potential, and—above all—value to the community. Preliminary rankings have been released. Final adjustments occur monthly. Questions are permitted after the presentation.”

She tapped her tablet.

A massive screen behind her flickered to life.

The Bloodmate Board.

A scrolling list of names, numbers, photos.

I didn’t have to search.

There I was.

**21 – Nico Black**

*Human – West Tower – Transfer*

*Status: Active*

Twenty-one.

Out of two thousand.

The room didn’t go silent. It went electric.

Whispers started at the far tables and rolled toward me like a wave.

I kept my face blank.

Inside, my stomach twisted.

I had no idea what I’d done to earn that number.

I had no idea what it would cost me.

But the queens were watching.

And breakfast had just begun.

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