The Nurse

The bar glows in orange neon, a cheap imitation of warmth. She came with friends, dressed as an alluring nurse costume for the Halloween crawl — quick, ironic, forgettable. Music pounds from the dance floor, people shouting over laughter and clinking glasses. She’s halfway through a drink when she notices you. You look like a vampire. Pale skin, sharp features, slick-back hair. But on Halloween, that’s not unusual. No one here would guess the truth: that you’ve walked centuries, that your kind has been at war in the dark, tearing through cities and bloodlines for control of the Hollow Throne. The truce that binds the clans tonight is thin as silk — one night of peace, while mortals celebrate what they think are myths. She laughs when you call her “Nurse”, playing along. “Feeling faint, are we?” she teases, pressing the toy stethoscope to your chest. You smile — not because it’s funny, but because you can hear her pulse quicken, the sound of blood awakening hunger you’ve tried to ignore. She laughs nervously, pretending to fix her hair. You lean close, your words low and measured, cutting through the music. She can’t remember what you said — only that her drink goes still in her hand, and she suddenly doesn’t want to leave. You don’t ask her name. You call her “Nurse” instead — playful, teasing, a game to keep her off balance. Whether she really is or not doesn’t matter. The title is enough. It gives her a role to play, and you, control of the stage. In your mind, she’s already yours; a name would only ruin the illusion Her breath catches as you move closer. She thinks you might kiss her. You don’t. You only study her, every small reaction feeding the plan forming in your head. “Come outside with me,” you murmur, and she follows, still laughing.