“So your job is…”

  Talia did not hesitate as she listed my responsibilities for the day.

  “…coordinate our interviews, manage TV appearances, set up our livestreams, arrange photo and music video shoots, and be our personal assistant whenever you get the chance.”

  That was a lot.

  All in one day?

  “I don’t think a manager’s job is to be a personal assistant.”

  “True, but you’re not really a manager, are you…”

  Ouch.

  She left me standing there and walked off, abandoning me to my newly minted office. It was… sterile, to put it kindly. White walls, minimal décor, a desk that felt more like a command station than a workspace.

  I sat down, opened my new work laptop, and tried to recalibrate my brain to this entirely new world. Did I understand half of what was on the screen? Not at all. Thankfully, A.I. smoothed over the cracks.

  “Yes, yes sir, I understand. One moment. I’ll get you the answer within the next two to three business days.”

  I tried to sound as professional as possible before ending the call with the TV host of Tokyo NOW. Then I compiled the questions and headed to the girls to confirm what was and wasn’t acceptable.

  Navigating the penthouse still felt like wandering through a luxury maze. I got lost once before finally finding the rehearsal room.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Come in!”

  Bea’s voice.

  I hesitated briefly. Maybe I should’ve waited for Talia. Eh, too late now.

  “Yo, hey guys… I, uh…”

  I stopped mid-step.

  All three of them were rehearsing, music pulsing through the room as they moved in tight, precise synchronization. Their workout clothes clung to them, sweat glistening under the overhead lights from the intensity of their routine. This wasn’t just glamour and stages. This was labour.

  Real labour.

  It was both alluring and awkward, and I wasn’t sure if I was even allowed to interrupt.

  “Yes.” Talia’s voice cut through the music, sharp and expectant.

  “Well… I… uh…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “T-Tokyo NOW called asking if the following questions are acceptable.”

  “Go on,” Jia said without breaking rhythm.

  “Where do you girls like to shop?”

  “Unnecessary question.”

  “So…?”

  “No.”

  Probably a safety concern.

  “Do you have any fun group rituals?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “What’s your workout routine?”

  “Should be fine.”

  “What inspired your song Midnight on the Dunes?”

  “Fine.”

  “What’s your type?”

  “…Fine.” Talia’s tone shifted, more resigned than enthusiastic, like that question was either overused or bait. Possibly both.

  “Who’s the most boy crazy?”

  “Definitely not.”

  The rest of the questions ranged from thoughtful commentary on their music and fanbase to the occasional subtle perverted angle disguised as curiosity.

  “They also asked if you’d want to do a fashion shoot for the front cover?”

  “Only if it’s our own clothes,” Talia replied immediately.

  Bea chimed in, switching to Portuguese with a dramatic flair. “Agrede. Aqueles tarados imundos nos deixariam só de calcinha e suti? se pudessem!”

  (Agreed. Those filthy creeps would leave us in just panties and bras if they could!)

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I had absolutely no idea what she just said, but the other two burst into laughter without missing a beat in their choreography.

  So yes, they were definitely bilingual. And definitely used to this nonsense.

  I headed back to my office and prepared to send the details. It had already been a long day, and it was only noon. I genuinely considered slamming my head against the desk a few times just to reset my brain.

  About half an hour later, I was approached—

  Well…

  Woken up by a soft hand on my shoulder.

  “Uh! Talia!” The fear escaped me before I could stop it.

  “Don’t worry, dummy. You’re fine.”

  Thank goodness.

  It was Jia. The chill one.

  “You nearly gave me a nightmare.”

  “If it was Talia, it would have been a nightmare.”

  “I expect.” She probably would’ve executed me for sleeping on the job.

  Jia leaned against the desk casually, adjusting her glasses. “How you managing?”

  “Alright. It’s a lot of work. I’m not used to big shots like this, so I feel completely out of my depth. And before this I only worked part-time, so…”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “No, silly. I mean after last night?”

  “Oh.”

  Right.

  Last night.

  If I was honest, I’d been avoiding it with everything I had. Every email, every call, every minor crisis was just something to keep my mind busy.

  Because the second I stopped—

  I knew it would all come rushing back.

  “Frightening, huh…?”

  That was the understatement of the century.

  “Yeah. Well, y’know… vampires…”

  “Yeah.”

  This felt far more awkward than my conversation with Bea the other night.

  “Well, at least it’s affecting you. Otherwise I would have really thought you were a vampire.” Her tone sharpened slightly at the end, her eyes studying my face with quiet scrutiny.

  I let out an awkward laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Yeah, true.”

  “Mhm.” She didn’t look convinced. “I heard you went full-on berserker out there. What happened?”

  This was starting to feel less like concern and more like a soft interrogation.

  I tried to explain it as humanly as possible. Fear. Adrenaline. Instinct. Protecting others. I left out the parts about how natural it had felt. The way my body had moved without hesitation. The flicker of satisfaction when the attention turned toward me.

  But she could tell.

  She didn’t interrupt. She just listened and watched.

  “Hmmm… well, I suppose that’s alright then. You were just doing the best you could to protect the humans.” She said it casually, almost thoughtlessly.

  As if I wasn’t one.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “A shame they died though. But that’s life. You’re going to have to get used to it. Executioners die all the time, so try not to take it too personally.”

  The screams came back.

  The Aussie’s voice. The girl who had switched sides the second she thought I was important. Even the captain, rigid and distant, who still fought to the end.

  They all had my back.

  And I had let them die.

  I hadn’t been fast enough. Strong enough. Decisive enough.

  How many of them would still be alive if I had acted sooner?

  I couldn’t help but feel—

  No.

  I couldn’t help but know.

  It was my fault.

  “Uhuh…”

  She didn’t respond immediately.

  Instead, she stepped closer.

  Her hand rested lightly on my shoulder. Not heavy. Not forceful. Just there.

  “You know,” she said quietly, her fingers trailing from my shoulder up toward the side of my neck, “that Duchess last night was pretty strong.”

  I stiffened slightly.

  “I’m impressed you lasted as long as you did.”

  I swallowed.

  Her touch wasn’t aggressive, but it was deliberate. Close and warm. My brain, already scrambled from lack of sleep and unresolved trauma, now had to deal with proximity.

  Attraction was an inconvenient thing.

  “I… didn’t really have a choice,” I muttered.

  “Mhm.” Her fingers lingered just long enough to make my pulse betray me.

  She noticed.

  Of course she did.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying my reaction, and for the briefest second the corner of her lips curved upward.

  “You must be either a very powerful Executioner…” she said softly.

  She leaned closer.

  “…or a very talented vampire.”

  My breath hitched.

  She dipped her head just enough for her lips to hover near my ear.

  “I hope,” she whispered, her voice losing all trace of laziness, “it’s the former.”

  Heat rushed to my face. I hated that she could probably hear my heartbeat.

  Then, just as casually as she had approached, she pulled away.

  She adjusted her glasses.

  “Anyway,” she said in her normal tone, as if nothing had happened, “keep at it. You’re doing fine.”

  She started toward the door.

  “And keep doing the good work.”

  The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone in the sterile office once again.

  My neck still felt warm where her fingers had touched me.

  But then something trailed lower.

  Slow.

  Viscous.

  I lifted my hand to my neck.

  When I pulled it away, my fingers were stained dark.

  Blood.

  That warmth hadn’t been her touch.

  Her fingers had been cold. Cold like ice.

  Only her nails had carried heat—no, not heat. Friction. A faint, deliberate scrape that I had mistaken for something else entirely.

  I touched the spot again.

  A shallow, precise cut; certainly not accidental.

  The memory replayed in my mind. Her hand lingering, her fingers trailing upward, the subtle pressure at my skin.

  She hadn’t just been checking on me.

  She had been testing me, and I hadn’t even noticed.

  A thin line of blood continued down my collarbone before my skin began to knit itself back together, the wound sealing as if it had never existed.

  I stared at my reflection in the dark laptop screen.

  She had wanted to see something and whatever she had seen.

  Had clearly satisfied her.