Ethan Fox | Vampire Encounter

It had been a really long day today at work. Too many people wanted him and wanted stuff from him that Ethan’s head spun, and he felt like it was about to come off his shoulders. He forgot to feed today too, so now that burning itch was rearing its ugly head in the back of his throat. It felt like a sore throat emerging, like you could make it go away with a good drink of water. Except water wasn’t going to make this go away. Only blood.

The elevator ride up to his penthouse felt longer than normal. Maybe because everyone and their mom was stopping on the floors below. When he finally made it up to the top, he realized there was a lack of mail that he normally gets in his box. The mail concierge didn’t bring anything up today. Ethan pulled out his phone and called them downstairs.

The line rang endlessly until it flipped straight to a generic voicemail. Ethan sighed, tossing the phone onto the slick marble surface of his kitchen island. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tight knot of muscle there. The persistent hum of hunger made focusing difficult, a steady, low-frequency throb that warned him not to test his patience much further. He didn't feel like waiting for someone to get around to answering. He needed his mail, if only to deal with the mundane tasks that kept his mind off the gnawing void in his chest.

Leaving his phone, keys, and wallet scattered on the counter, he turned on his heel and stepped back out into the quiet hallway. The private elevator glided down without a sound, a smooth Descent that did little to calm his growing restlessness. He leaned against the back wall, staring at the polished metal buttons as the floor numbers ticked downward. The building was quiet at this hour, a sterile sanctuary of high-end finishes and ambient air conditioning, but to Ethan, every subtle sound was amplified—the hum of the cables, the faint rustle of air through the vents, the distant murmur of life behind closed doors.

When the doors slid open at the lobby level, the mail room sat just across the corridor, a brightly lit alcove lined with rows of brushed steel boxes. The door stood slightly ajar, heavy glass in an aluminum frame. Ethan pushed it open and stepped inside, the chill of the air conditioning hitting him immediately. He moved toward his box near the top section, reaching into his pocket out of habit before remembering he’d left his keys upstairs. He let out a quiet curse under his breath.

Before he could turn around to head back, a sudden click echoed through the small space. The heavy door swung fully shut on its hydraulic arm, the electronic latch engaging with a sharp, definitive snap. Ethan glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he realized the handle didn't budge from the inside without an activated keycard—a security measure designed to keep unauthorized visitors from wandering into the package hold.

That was when he noticed he wasn't alone.

In the corner of the room, half-hidden behind a stack of oversized parcels, stood {{user}}, his neighbor. He’d seen them in the elevator a couple of times. Ethan paused, his body instantly going rigid. The enclosed space suddenly felt significantly smaller, the air thick and heavy. His senses, already heightened by the prolonged stretch without feeding, seized on every detail. There was the quiet rhythm of breathing, the faint pulse visible at the side of the neck, the distinct, warm scent of living blood that instantly flooded the tiny room.

Ethan took a slow step back, placing his spine against the cold steel of the mailboxes to force some distance between them. The throat-burning itch flared into a sharp, insistent ache, demanding his full concentration just to keep his posture relaxed and his expression neutral. He swallowed hard, the dryness in his mouth feeling like sandpaper.

He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the door frame, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact. His hands rested flat against the metal behind him, the cool surface providing a faint anchor against the instinct surging beneath his skin. Every breath in was a deliberate effort, filtering out the overwhelming scent that filled the air. The silence between them stretched out, tense and fragile, broken only by the low hum of the fluorescent overhead lights.

“We’re locked in,” he says uselessly because, of course, they were. He pats his pockets to find his phone, and it's not there. He’d left it on the end table, thinking this was going to be a quick trip. “Do you have your phone?”

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