"Try again," she says.
Lauren Mitchell doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to. The space between us compresses anyway, thick with the implication that she's already decided how this conversation ends.
Behind her, the two men stand like parentheses.
I keep my shoulders relaxed. I keep my hands visible. I keep my mouth shut for one extra beat so I don't say something sharp enough to be memorable.
The ER is still moving around us—beds rolling, nurses calling for meds, monitors complaining in their thin, mechanical way. In a room built for emergencies, this is a different kind of emergency. The kind that doesn't show up on a vitals screen until it's too late.
"Okay," I say, and I make the word sound like I'm conceding to a stubborn family member, not to a threat. "You want the truth? I got blood on my mouth because your… friend… started moving after we called it. That tends to throw people."
Her eyes stay on mine. "You didn't just get blood on your mouth."
My jaw tightens. I can still feel the aftertaste like a smear behind my tongue.
I could lie better. I've lied to coworkers with less effort about less important things—why I'm late, why I'm pale, why I skip the break room when someone is eating.
But Lauren's gaze is a tool. It doesn't persuade. It dissects.
"I checked his airway," I say. "I leaned in close. My glove had blood. It happened."
The mild guy makes a low sound, almost a scoff. The bearded one doesn't move, but his weight shifts subtly onto his back leg—ready stance disguised as casual.
Lauren's voice stays measured. "You're a doctor. You know what cross-contamination is. You also know nobody puts their mouth anywhere near an unknown patient's fluids."
I feel heat crawl up my neck. Not embarrassment. Pressure.
The Ensanguine Thirst stirs at the word mouth as if she tapped on a cage.
[HUNGER: 94% — PREDATORY]
[HEALTH: 83% — STABLE]
It's lower than before, but not low enough. Not safe. Not stable. The first sip bought me minutes, not peace.
A nurse darts past, eyes flicking between Lauren and me with the curiosity of someone who knows this isn't a normal conversation but has too much work to ask. She vanishes into another bay.
Lauren takes advantage of the moving chaos like she belongs to it.
"Doctor," she says again, and there's something deliberately impersonal about it, as if names are privileges she hasn't granted. "I'm going to give you two options. You walk with me to somewhere quiet, or you keep standing here in public while I ask you questions you don't want your staff to hear."
"And if I say neither?" I ask.
Her expression doesn't change, but the air does. The two men shift closer, just enough for my peripheral vision to register them.
"You won't," she says.
There are ways to win this. None of them are good.
I could push past. I'm fast. Too fast, if I'm not careful. The part of me that moves like a snapped rubber band is always hungry to show itself. If I use it, I might get away—until security footage gets reviewed, until someone asks why Dr. Thorne can cross a hallway faster than a person should.
I could call hospital security. That would be an interesting conversation: three strangers just commandeered my trauma bay and now they're threatening me. Security would show up, and Lauren would smile politely and show a badge that isn't a badge and suddenly the whole thing would become above my pay grade.
Or I could do what my training has always told me to do when I can't control the situation.
Control my part in it.
"Five minutes," I say. "Bed five is on a drip and I need to make sure they don't crash. After that, we talk."
Lauren's eyes flick once toward the nurses' station. She listens, not to words, but to the rhythm of the department. Then she nods.
"Three," she corrects. "And you don't leave my sight."
I let out a breath that I pretend is annoyance.
"Fine," I say. "Three. Stay out of the way."
I turn and move toward bed five. I don't look over my shoulder. I don't need to. I can hear their footsteps behind mine, synced like an escort detail.
The patient in bed five is older, sweat shining on his forehead, pressure still soft despite fluids and medication. I adjust the drip, check his extremities, ask him a quick question about pain and breathing. He answers. He's alive. He stays alive.
It should make me feel something clean.
Instead, I smell the faint iron on his lips and my mouth goes dry.
I step back and force my gaze to the monitor instead of the man.
"Michael?" the charge nurse says quietly when she catches me at the foot of the bed. Her eyes flick toward Lauren. "Who are they?"
"Consult," I say. The lie slides out smooth because lies are easier when you've practiced them. "For the… animal attack case."
Her expression tightens. "Consult? From where?"
"From somewhere I don't want to explain in the hallway." I soften my voice, just enough. "I'll handle it. Keep triage moving."
She studies me. She's known me long enough to recognize when I'm compartmentalizing. She doesn't push, because she has too much to carry.
"Fine," she says, but her eyes linger on my face one extra second. "You good?"
I almost tell her the truth.
I almost tell her that the simple act of being within arm's reach of blood makes my throat feel like sandpaper. That my body is a leaking container held together by routine and tape.
"I'm good," I say. "Just tired."
She nods, already moving.
Lauren waits until I'm out of immediate earshot, then steps closer.
"Your name," she says, as if we're beginning properly now.
I glance at my badge clipped to my chest.
She follows the glance and reads it.
"Michael Thorne," she says, and the sound of my name in her mouth feels like a line drawn on a map. "Okay, Michael. Three minutes are up."
"I'm still on the clock," I say.
"So am I."
I should ask for her credentials.
I should demand to know why she walked into my bay like she owned it.
I should do a hundred things.
Instead, I find myself walking with her because the alternative is escalating in front of my staff.
She leads me to a small consult room near radiology—one of those windowless boxes where families get bad news and staff steal thirty seconds of quiet. The mild guy steps inside with us. The bearded one takes position outside the door, just close enough for me to hear his breathing through the wall.
Lauren closes the door, not locking it, just sealing it.
The room smells faintly of disinfectant and old coffee.
It should be neutral.
My body disagrees. It feels like a trap.
"Sit," Lauren says.
"I'm fine standing."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
I sit because, for once, it's the easier choice. My knees bounce once before I still them. I lace my fingers together to keep my hands from doing anything stupid.
Lauren leans back against the counter, arms loosely crossed. The mild guy stands near the door, posture relaxed, eyes on my hands.
Lauren studies me like she's taking a history.
"You didn't call security," she says. "You didn't shout. You didn't try to play hero. You also didn't act surprised when he twitched."
I keep my expression flat. "I see weird things in the ER."
"Not that kind of weird," she says.
I let out a short breath. "What do you want?"
She doesn't answer immediately. She chooses her words like she's handling something that can bite.
"We received a report," she says. "Rabid animal attack. Witnesses said the attacker moved wrong. Victim died on arrival, then moved again. That's not rabies."
"You're… what?" I ask. "CDC? Some special infectious disease team?"
Lauren's mouth tilts faintly, humorless. "No."
I wait.
The silence stretches. In the silence, my Hunger creeps, not spiking, just steadily tightening the noose.
[HUNGER: 95% — PREDATORY]
[HEALTH: 83% — STABLE]
Lauren notices my eyes flick slightly, not toward anything in particular, just… away.
"You're tracking something," she says. "What is that?"
"Nothing," I say too quickly.
The mild guy's head tilts.
Lauren steps closer, boots quiet on tile. She keeps her voice calm.
"Michael," she says, and using my name feels like a deliberate escalation. "When you were behind that curtain, you weren't afraid. You were… hungry."
The word hits like a match.
My tongue presses against the back of my teeth. My mouth waters, instinctive and humiliating.
"I was stressed," I say. "People do weird things under stress."
Lauren's eyes don't soften. "My work depends on noticing the difference."
I meet her gaze and let my voice flatten, not robotic, just tired and edged. "Your work. You keep saying that. Who are you?"
Lauren exhales through her nose.
"My organization is informal," she says. "We don't exist on paper the way you want. We don't wear uniforms. We don't answer to your hospital admin."
"That's comforting."
She ignores the sarcasm. "People call us the Hunters Association. Some call us the Guild. It depends on who's scared of us and who's asking for help."
The words settle in my stomach like ice.
"Monster hunters," I say, and I keep my tone neutral on purpose. Not mockery. Not fascination. Just naming.
Lauren watches my reaction like it's an EKG.
"You don't laugh," she notes.
"I'm too tired to laugh."
"That's not it."
I don't answer because she's too close to something I don't want to display.
The mild guy shifts slightly. Lauren clocks it, then continues.
"Teams in the Guild," she says, "have names. Not for branding. For memory. Our first hunted monster leaves a mark. The name makes sure we don't forget what we're dealing with."
"Cute," I say.
"It's not," she replies. "My team's called Burnt-Lung."
The name doesn't mean anything to me, but it feels like it should. Like a story I'm not allowed to hear.
Lauren's gaze stays steady. "We're here because something is operating in your city. A vampire. Maybe worse. And tonight, it walked into your ER."
My heart kicks once. I keep my face controlled.
"I treat people," I say. "I don't categorize them."
Lauren's eyes narrow. "You just put your mouth on a corpse."
Silence again.
I swallow. "He wasn't a corpse," I say, and the words come out before I can stop them. Too honest. Too fast.
Lauren's posture changes. Not aggressive—focused. Like a camera lens clicking into place.
"Say that again," she says softly.
I stare at her, realizing my mistake, and the Hunger seizes on the tension like it's a scent.
[HUNGER: 97% — PREDATORY]
[HEALTH: 82% — STABLE]
My hands tighten together. I can feel my nails press into my own skin.
"I said what I said," I reply. "He was doing something that didn't match the monitor."
Lauren holds my gaze, then glances at the mild guy.
"Check the bay," she says.
He nods and leaves, slipping out quietly.
Lauren returns her full attention to me.
"Michael," she says, "what do you know about vampires?"
"I know what everyone knows," I say. "They're not real."
Lauren's expression doesn't move. "Try again."
The second time she says it, it's not about my lie. It's about my pattern.
I force a small laugh. "You really like that phrase."
"I like the truth," she says.
My Hunger pulses. I need to move. I need to drink. I need something.
Not now. Not here.
I lean back in the chair and let my face settle into weary irritation, the mask I wear for patients' families when they ask me why the world doesn't make sense.
"You want the truth?" I say. "I know there are things in this city that don't belong on a triage chart. I know people come in with injuries that aren't explained by car accidents or fists. I know sometimes the police write reports that don't match the wounds."
Lauren doesn't blink.
"And," I continue, voice low, "I know that if you're what you say you are, you just removed a body from my department without consent and without documentation."
Lauren's lips part slightly, almost a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"That," she says, "is the most doctor thing you've said so far."
I breathe in slowly. The room smells clean and wrong.
"You want to keep this quiet," I say. "Fine. But you can't disrupt my ER. You can't endanger my staff."
Lauren's voice stays level. "Agreed."
The ease of her agreement is what makes me suspicious.
"And in exchange," she continues, "you're going to tell me what happened behind that curtain."
I hold her gaze. "I already did."
"No," she says. "You gave me a story. I want the moment before the story. The instinct. The reason."
I feel heat crawl up my throat. My teeth ache.
I could say I panicked. I could say I checked for airway obstruction. I could say anything.
But Lauren isn't here for what I did. She's here for what I am.
The door opens.
The mild guy steps back in, face unreadable.
"The bay is clean," he says. "No body. No blood. Nothing left but a ripped sheet."
My stomach drops.
Lauren nods once, like that's what she expected.
The Guild didn't just handle a hazard.
They erased it.
Lauren looks at me again.
"You see the problem?" she asks.
I stare back. "You stole a body."
"We prevented an outbreak," she corrects.
"Of what?" I ask.
Lauren's gaze is sharp enough to pin me in place.
"Of you," she says quietly.
The words hit harder than they should.
Because my first instinct is anger.
My second is fear.
And my third—my worst—is hunger.
[HUNGER: 98% — PREDATORY]
[HEALTH: 82% — STABLE]
The room tilts slightly at the edges, not dizzy—narrowed. Focused.
Lauren's eyes flick down, just once, to my throat. To the pulse there.
She sees it. She knows I'm pushing something down so hard it's shaking my bones.
"Michael," she says, and her voice softens by a fraction, not out of kindness but calculation. "If you're infected, if you're compromised, if you're… changing—then you need help before you become what we hunt."
I laugh once, short and harsh. "And your help is what? A bullet?"
Lauren's jaw tightens. "Containment, if possible."
"And if not?"
She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.
The silence is her moral code, drawn clean and cold.
I lean forward, elbows on knees, and force my voice to stay human.
"You walked into my bay," I say. "You saw something you didn't like. You're assuming you understand me."
Lauren's gaze doesn't waver.
"I understand patterns," she says. "And I understand hunger."
The door handle clicks behind her. The bearded guy's shadow passes under the crack as he shifts position.
My mouth goes dry again. My tongue aches.
I need a break. I need fluids. I need a minute away from her eyes.
I push to my feet slowly, keeping my hands visible. Keeping my body language non-threatening.
"I have patients," I say. "This conversation is interfering with my job."
Lauren watches me stand. "Your job," she says, "is exactly why I'm here."
"How do you figure?"
"Because hospitals attract predators," she says. "And because if there's a vampire in this city, it will come where the blood is."
My stomach turns.
Lauren steps aside, giving me a clear path to the door. Too polite.
"We're not done," she says. "But you can go back to work."
I narrow my eyes. "Why are you letting me go?"
Lauren's expression stays flat.
"Because I'm not here to ruin your life," she says. "I'm here to stop you from ruining everyone else's."
I open the door and step out into the hallway.
The ER noise hits like a wave—phones, voices, the squeak of wheels. I welcome it like a disguise.
I walk fast, not too fast.
I make it to the supply room, close the door, and lean my forehead against the cool metal shelf.
My breath comes shallow for two seconds before I force it steady.
I grab an IV bag with hands that are starting to tremble.
Not much time.
Not much margin.
The Ensanguine Thirst doesn't care about Lauren Mitchell.
It cares about the smell of blood in a building full of it.
I spike the bag, hang it, and slide the needle in with practiced efficiency.
Cold fluid slips into my vein.
The relief is thin.
But thin is better than nothing.
[HUNGER: 96% — PREDATORY]
[HEALTH: 82% — STABLE]
I close my eyes and swallow hard.
Outside the door, footsteps pause.
A shadow crosses the crack at the bottom.
Lauren's voice comes through the metal, calm as ever.
"Michael," she says, "I know you're in there."
I freeze with the IV line in my arm and the taste of blood still haunting my mouth.
"And I'm going to ask you one more time," she adds. "What happened behind that curtain?"