Neon spilled across the hall in soft pink and purple gleams, as if tinting the evening in a light unreality.
The café, packed with a mix of humans and vampires, hummed with a steady background of voices. Behind the bar, metal shakers glinted; on the tables stood glasses filled with drinks in every shade of red.
Televisions hung on the walls, murmuring the latest news.
In the upper corner of one screen, a bumper flashed:
"Elections for the new vice president are approaching!"
Ethan, in a dark apron with a tray tucked under his arm, smirked and tossed over his shoulder to a familiar face:
"This year they'll be electing vampires."
"We're already in hell," the other guy replied, grinning as if it were a good joke.
Ethan wasn't listening anymore: he was delivering orders—cocktails in rich, saturated hues from scarlet to near-black.
Each glass had a neat little tag dangling from it: "O+", "AB-".
At one table, a vampire in a perfectly tailored suit raised an irritated eyebrow:
"This batch is too bland. I ordered first-group."
"My apologies, sir. I'll fix it," Ethan said politely, taking the glass.
Much better, flashed through his mind with familiar irony.
As he passed, he caught a hushed conversation from the neighboring table.
Two vampires leaned toward each other like conspirators.
"Corvin pushed through the donor tax again," one muttered discontentedly.
The other smirked, flashing even fangs:
"Let the humans work. Their blood is public property anyway."
Ethan turned away, merely rolling his eyes.
These businessmen again…
On the next shift he was pouring another coffee—dark, but with a distinct reddish tint, slightly thick.
The coffee machine smelled of roasted beans and something metallic.
Above him on the wall hung an advertising poster: an elegant woman with a glass, glancing over her shoulder at two men.
The caption read:
"True taste — the one that lasts forever."
By the window, where neon painted the glass in bloody-wine streaks, two important-looking vampires sat.
One—gray-haired, with a monocle, his face carved by age; the other—young, with a massive ring on his pinky finger, deliberately on display.
They unhurriedly sipped a thick drink that resembled aged wine in color.
"Corvin's heading for a solid win. Seventy percent for him," the gray-haired one said, tilting his glass slightly.
The young one smiled at the corner of his mouth:
"Of course. He feeds the masses promises… and not only promises."
Ethan caught fragments of their words, but he had long since stopped being surprised.
In this city, the news sounded the same whether from the television, politicians' mouths, or vampires calmly sipping someone's blood.
He just kept working, sustained by the scents of coffee, metal, and the eternal, inescapable neon.
At the table by the window, where viscous light from the neon sign settled, the two vampires' conversation grew denser.
The gray-haired one slowly turned a page in his newspaper, but his companion went on anyway:
"And Anna? They say she's going to run against him. Supposedly planning to reform the donor laws."
"Anna's an idealist," the other replied lazily.
"A beautiful suit of naivety. Her blood's too light for politics."
He said it as though he were speaking not of a living being, but of an expensive wine that hadn't been aged properly.
The gray-haired one lifted the newspaper—on the front page was the face of Anna Crimson, a young vampire woman with cold eyes and a perfect, slightly hard smile.
Below the portrait, bold letters stretched:
"Anna Corvin — new blood in old power."
"If I didn't know her father," the first one grinned, "I'd think she actually believed in change."
"Power is the same drink, only sweeter," the second replied, a faint weariness in his voice from a world they had ruled for far too long.
A few minutes later Ethan, passing by, set a cup on his tray. His gaze involuntarily caught on the television, where Anna appeared again—confident, flawless, surrounded by camera flashes.
"Is she the one running for mayor?" Ethan asked quietly.
At the bar counter stood Derek—unkempt, always a bit sleepy, but attentive. He snorted without looking away from the screen:
"What do you think? Vampires don't stand still."
A pause, and Ethan muttered with a crooked smirk:
"Elections… hilarious."
When the flow of customers eased a little, they ended up side by side behind the bar.
Derek was wiping glasses, throwing short glances at the screen.
"They say this year they'll let humans vote," he said.
"Yeah," Ethan replied dryly. "But only those with rare blood."
Derek chuckled and set a glass aside.
"Fair and square: better blood, heavier vote."
"Then mine's negative," Ethan murmured, not even trying to joke. His voice sounded as though that figure had been stamped on his forehead since birth.
The clock above the coffee machine slowly ticked to 23:00. The lights in the hall dimmed, customers left, trailing sticky marks and the scents of various, overly thick drinks.
Derek, passing by, tossed over his shoulder:
"Break. Coming? Let's smoke."
"Let's go," Ethan sighed. "Maybe out there I can actually breathe."
They stepped out the back door. The narrow alley greeted them with a flickering sign, damp concrete air, and piles of neon trash reflected in puddles like the glow of alien eyes.
Derek lit up first, cupping the flame in his palm. Ethan leaned against the wall, staring somewhere toward the lit street.
The wind carried the city's smells from there—dense, pulling, kindred to the evening itself.
Even the smoke smells like blood, he thought.
The city's soaked in it.
What a horror…
Derek finished his cigarette, lazily flicking ash toward the wall.
The last ember barely glowed when he pressed the butt against the brick and tossed it into the metal bin by the door.
"My shift's over," he said, raising his hands as if surrendering to the night—the gesture almost playful.
"Nina's coming soon. At least there'll be someone to talk to. I think she's replacing me."
Ethan nodded, giving a faint smile.
"At least someone alive will stay in this place."
"Don't jinx it," Derek smirked.
"Even the coffee here gets drunk cold."
He waved and headed toward the street. His silhouette quickly dissolved into the neon haze and smoke. Ethan stayed alone by the back door. He took a deep breath—the air was damp, heavy, metallic—and pushed the door back open.
Heavy evening ahead…
Inside, behind the counter, Nina was already working. Her copper-blonde short hair caught pink light glints, and on her face lived a tired but attentive smile—the kind people wear after too many night shifts.
Her shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, the "Sweet Bunny" logo apron sat on her a little better than on the others, as if she wore it with some special dignity.
On her wrist glinted a thin band—the donor microchip she seemed to prefer hiding under clothing.
Ethan stood nearby, slowly polishing a glass. His shoulders trembled faintly from fatigue.
"Heard about yesterday's scandal?" Nina asked without looking up.
"If it's not about pay, then no," he replied listlessly.
In the background, music played quietly from an old gramophone.
Somewhere in the corner a customer flipped through a newspaper.
Nina leaned closer, propping her elbow on the counter. In the side light her eyes looked brighter.
"A couple of high-ups put on a show. They were served the wrong type," she whispered conspiratorially.
"Allergy to low-quality donor?" Ethan snorted, raising an eyebrow.
"Better. One of them sampled the waiter right there in the hall."
Ethan pulled back, was silent for a second, then let out a dull chuckle.
"Amazing how even monsters can be gourmets."
He carefully lined up clean glasses in perfect order—a tiny island of tidiness amid the red chaos. Nina quietly watched him. A light smile appeared on her lips, but something like regret flickered in her eyes.
"They're just… more refined," she said. "Even when they drink someone's blood."
Her gaze lifted to the television above the bar. Corvin appeared again—confident, slick, promising yet another round of "harmony and equality."
The falseness was audible even through the muted sound.
The bar gradually filled with night atmosphere.
Behind the counter, Ethan and Nina worked like two stabilizers in a world skewed under neon hues.
On the shelves behind them stood bottles—each neatly labeled with a blood type, like a collection of vintage wines.
By the window a vampire in an expensive suit lazily sipped a thick crimson drink, watching a group of young, noisy vampires gathered closer to the center of the hall.
Some decided to stay longer tonight, Ethan noted to himself.
He raised an eyebrow and said it aloud to Nina.
She gave a barely noticeable nod toward the noisy quartet.
Young vampires in fashionable coats—bright, groomed, almost defiantly pleased with themselves—laughed and filmed stories.
One held his phone, the screen glowing:
"#BloodyNight #ChallengeTime," he dictated.
Before them stood a tray piled with bottles—bright red, deep burgundy, sparkling under the lamps.
"Whoever downs three Iron Martinis first is king of the night!" one announced enthusiastically.
"Main thing—don't trip the hemoglobin detector!" another chimed in.
Ethan wiped glasses without lifting his head, only arching an eyebrow a bit higher than usual.
Nina snorted:
"Youth is when you can drink blood till dawn and still look like a toothpaste ad."
One of the vampires had already raised a fourth glass. The liquid trembled, reflecting neon stripes.
"I swear," he laughed, "my blood type's AB Party now!"
In the corner of the bar the young vampires' laughter grew louder—cheerful, predatory, youthfully cocksure.
One of them, barely holding his glass, burst out:
"Remember the golden rule—don't spill, or the humans will think it's wine!"
Ethan and Nina exchanged weary glances. In the background—a camera flash, triumphant cackles, likes pouring in live.
Nina exhaled:
"I remember when drinking was an excuse to talk… not this whole thing."
"Now it's just a way to forget the world's long been swallowed by them," Ethan replied with a crooked smirk.