The voice came out cracked but firm, like a blade freshly sharpened.
Flash tilted his head slightly, the motion almost imperceptible, yet attentive, appraising.
The smile vanished from his face completely.
Now he looked at Ethan not as a stubborn kid anymore, but as a potential asset, like a chess player who suddenly realizes a pawn might become a queen if you don't knock it off the board too soon.
"Oh?" he said quietly, almost a whisper.
"Unexpected."
Flash turned toward the door.
His movements were calm, honed, as though this entire visit had been nothing more than a brief business conversation.
He picked up the hat from the coffee table, placed it on his head with one practiced motion, tilting it slightly to the side, like a cowboy in an old Western wrapping up a scene.
"Fine. We'll play it your way."
For a moment he paused, hand resting on the doorknob.
Long fingers, covered in old scars, closed around the metal. But he didn't open the door immediately. He only turned his head over his shoulder, slowly, without haste.
Behind the dark lenses it was impossible to see his eyes, yet the sensation was unmistakable: he was looking straight into Ethan's soul, deep, merciless, like an X-ray.
"Don't forget," he said softly, almost tenderly.
"The vampires will come for you.
And when they do, you'll remember who offered you help first."
The door swung open.
Cold daytime air rushed into the apartment, damp, tasting of wet asphalt, exhaust fumes, and distant rain.
It carried the city's noise: the hum of cars, a far-off dog barking, the rustle of leaves in the wind.
The television fell silent for a second, as though the apartment itself held its breath.
The politician on screen kept smiling, but the sound cut out, leaving only the mute movement of lips.
Flash gave a small tip of his hat, a short, almost ironic farewell gesture.
"Think fast, Hitcher."
He stepped out without looking back.
The heavy thud of cowboy boots echoed down the stairwell, confident, measured, like a metronome.
They receded downward, step by step, until they faded completely.
The door remained half-open, a palm-wide gap through which the cold and the darkness of the hallway crept in.
Ethan stood in the corridor, fingers digging into the doorframe so hard the wood creaked under his nails.
He felt the chill roll down his spine, slowly, in waves, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back.
«How did he find me…?» — the thought beat against the inside of his skull like a moth against glass.
«Tracked me? Or… has he been watching for a long time?»
He remembered the faces in the park, the phone camera, the vampires' laughter.
He remembered the courtroom, where everyone already knew his name.
Remembered how easily Flash had said his last name.Reed.
As though it had already been on some list.
The darkness beyond the threshold looked deep, almost viscous a black pit you could step into and never return from.
Somewhere far below, the building's front door slammed, distant, muffled.
And why was he so sure they'd come back?
Ethan slowly closed the door, not slamming it, just closing it with a quiet click of the lock.
He turned the key twice.
Then pressed his forehead to the wood.
The wood was cold, smelling of old paint and dust.
He stood like that for a long time, until his breathing evened out, until his heart stopped hammering in his throat.
Then he turned his back to the door.
The room was exactly as before: flickering television, black curtains, emptiness.
Wednesday, 19:30
The evening turned out grayer than usual, not merely gray, but somehow bleached, as though someone had wrung the last colors out of the sky and left only ash.
The rain had stopped an hour earlier, but the streets still glistened, reflecting neon in puddles, flashes of pink, blue, purple that died out almost instantly, as though the city had begun to fall slowly asleep.
Advertising billboards flickered; letters blinked unstably in their frames.
Ethan walked to work along wet sidewalks, trying not to look anyone in the face. Humans and vampires moved side by side, yet as though on separate tracks.
Humans, slow, shoulders slumped, in old jackets and soaked sneakers, stepped with eyes down, as though afraid to meet anyone's gaze who stood higher than them.
Vampires looked exactly like humans, but you could tell them apart by the tailored suits, the confidence, the coldness.
They walked straight, without wasted motion; coats and capes billowed behind them like wings they hadn't bothered to fold.
They didn't hurry, didn't push, didn't apologize, they simply passed through the crowd, and people instinctively parted like water around a stone.
«Just make it to the end of the shift…» — Ethan repeated to himself like a mantra.
«Pretend everything's fine. Smile, pour drinks, go home, don't think about stupid things.»
The "Sweet Bunny" sign hung above the entrance to the alley, white neon with pink rabbit ears that clicked and blinked periodically, as though it would need replacing soon.
The light was dim but persistent; it cut through the misty drizzle and lay on the wet asphalt in long stripes.
The club door was heavy, metal, black paint peeling.
When Ethan pushed it open, warm, stifling air hit him, thick with the scent of congealed blood, sweet syrup, and something metallic that lingered on the tongue even after you closed your mouth.
Inside, the club was drowned in red light, velvet, like the inside of an eyelid.
Ceiling lamps glowed dimly, casting long shadows across walls upholstered in black velvet.
The dark-wood bar counter gleamed with spilled drops; behind it the other bartenders were already working two humans and one vampire with silver hair who never smiled.
Ethan slipped behind the bar, tied on the black apron with the small pink bunny on the chest, and began working mechanically.
Wiping glasses, checking bottles, pouring. His hands moved on autopilot; habit was stronger than exhaustion.
A young-looking vampire, about twenty in appearance with perfectly styled black hair and a thin gold chain around his neck sat at the bar on a high stool.
He barely glanced at the watch on his wrist, slim, silver, tiny diamonds instead of numerals and drawled without lifting his eyes:
"You're forty-seven seconds late. I timed it."
The voice was light, almost playful, yet laced with that cold precision that sent shivers down the spine.
Ethan exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers tightened on the rag for an instant.
"Traffic," he said quietly, without emotion.
The vampire smirked, flashing the tips of his fangs at the corner of his mouth. The smirk was brief, like a flash.
"Humans always have traffic," he said, now looking straight at Ethan.
His eyes were pale gray, almost transparent like ice under moonlight.
"Roads, emotions, life… everything about you moves slowly. Amusing."
He leaned back against the stool, tapping a finger on the rim of his glass.
A drop of blood still remained inside, thick, dark-burgundy, slowly sliding down the inside of the glass.
Ethan silently took a bottle of premium synthetic blood,dark red, with a faint cherry-and-metal aftertaste and poured exactly the right amount per etiquette.
Three-quarters full, no drop on the rim.
He set the glass in front of the vampire, carefully, without extra movement.
The vampire took it with two fingers, brought it to his lips, but didn't drink.
He simply watched Ethan over the rim.
"You look worse than usual," he remarked, almost tenderly.
"Didn't sleep? Or… did someone die?"
The words fell quietly, but in the bar's silence they sounded like a gunshot.
Ethan froze.
His hands tensed on the counter; he felt a surge of anger but didn't reply.
He simply turned away, took the next order, a cocktail for the couple at the neighboring table and began mixing without glancing at the vampire.
But inside something shifted.
The rage,the heavy one born in the courtroom, the one he'd tried to bury under work, stirred again.
He tried not to think about everything that had happened and just do his job.
Later, in the locker room, the fluorescent lights flickered so dully it seemed they were in pain themselves.
The light was cold, deathly white, reflecting off cracked tiles and metal lockers coated in old paint and scratches.
The air smelled of sweat, cheap deodorant, and something metallic, maybe from the pipes, maybe from blood spilled here more often than water.
Ethan peeled off the uniform soaked in syrup and synthetic blood.
The fabric rustled as he pulled it over his head and tossed it into the dirty-laundry bin.
Then he stood in just a T-shirt and jeans, thin, faded, with a stain from a spilled cocktail on the chest that he'd never managed to wash out.
He pressed his forehead to the cold metal locker.
«How good I feel…» — he thought with a heavy sigh.
The metal was icy,a pleasant, almost painful coolness that for a second drowned the heat in his temples.
His eyes closed; his breathing slowly evened.
«If he really wanted to help…»— the thought came quietly but insistently, like a mosquito in the dark.
«Why did he leave? He could have given advice… a word, a hint. Or was it just a game? Just to watch me break?»
He didn't have time to finish the thought.
The air suddenly turned colder,not a draft from the vent, but a sharp, palpable drop in temperature, as though someone had opened a window in winter.
Goosebumps rose on the back of his neck.
Ethan felt the presence before he heard footsteps,he simply knew someone was standing behind him.
«Close. Too close, he thought.»
A pale hand settled on his shoulder, light yet heavy at the same time.
The fingers were cold as marble that had lain too long in shadow. The skin was smooth, poreless, without a single wrinkle.
"Mr. Hitcher," came a calm, almost friendly voice.
Low, velvety, with a subtle modulation like someone accustomed to being heard even when he speaks in a whisper.