Episode 1-Introduction
The fluorescent lights in the open-plan office of Crimson Medical Billing hummed like distant thunder, casting a sterile white glow over rows of desks stacked with folders thick as fresh blood clots. Denise sat at her corner station, shoulders hunched, fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced exhaustion. Another stack of donor reconciliation reports waited beside her monitor, each line item a needle pricking at her already frayed nerves.
“Denise, those plasma center audits need to be cross-checked before lunch,” Paul’s voice boomed from the doorway of his glass-walled office. He stood there in his crisp navy suit, arms folded, the picture of effortless authority. Next to him, Samantha leaned casually against the frame, her new vice-assistant badge catching the light like a polished fang. The position had been created only a month ago—specifically for her, everyone whispered—and already she wore it like a crown. She carefully touched Paul's shoulder claiming her position, they all knew he has a soft spot for her. Denise knew.
“Yes, Paul, they’ll be ready,” Denise answered softly, keeping her amber eyes on the screen. She didn’t look up. Omegas learned early that meeting an alpha’s gaze too long invited trouble, even in the human corporate world.
Samantha flashed a bright, predatory smile. “I’ve already flagged the high-volume donors for the VIP presentation, Paul. We could bundle the incentives with the new blood-drive campaign. I think it’ll boost retention by fifteen percent.” Her voice was honey over steel, the kind that made Paul’s chest puff out.
“Brilliant, Samantha. That’s exactly the fresh blood we need in this department.” Paul clapped her shoulder, lingering a second longer than necessary. “Denise, once you’re done with the audits, help Samantha prep the slides, yeah? She’s got the vision.”
Denise’s jaw tightened, the familiar sting of dismissal sliding down her throat like cheap whiskey. She nodded anyway, lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course.”
As Paul retreated into his office with Samantha trailing behind—laughing at something he said—Denise let out a slow breath. The faint metallic scent of her own frustration filled her nose, sharper than it should have been. A tiny paper cut on her index finger from earlier that morning had reopened; a single ruby bead welled up. She stared at it, the coppery tang suddenly overwhelming, making her stomach twist with a hunger that had nothing to do with the untouched granola bar in her drawer. She pressed a tissue to it quickly, willing the wild part of her to stay buried.
This was her life now. Not the moonlit runs through the pines she craved on full-moon nights, not the pack songs she could only hum in secret. Just this: blood work, literally. Crimson Veil handled billing for half the blood banks and transfusion centers in Nocturne City. Every keystroke, every report, every denied claim was soaked in someone else’s lifeblood—and hers.
She glanced at the tiny photo taped to the edge of her monitor: Ethan, age fourteen, grinning with a missing front tooth. He was sixteen now, and that grin had faded months ago when the diagnosis came. Aplastic anemia. His bone marrow had decided to stop producing blood cells, leaving him pale, bruised, and exhausted. The monthly treatments—immunosuppressants, growth factors, the occasional transfusion—cost more than most people earned in a year. The latest hospital bill had arrived yesterday: $4,872. Due in fourteen days.
And the house payment. Three months behind. The bank’s latest letter sat folded in her bag like a death threat written in red ink.
All of it rested on her shoulders.
This morning replayed in her mind as she typed, the words on the screen blurring.
She had woken to the creak of the front door at 5:17 a.m. Ronald—Dad—had stumbled in, reeking of cigarette smoke and the cheap bourbon he favored after a bad night at the underground card tables on the east side. Not violent, never that. Just… broken. His eyes, the same warm brown as hers, had been bloodshot and defeated.
“Lost it all again, Deni,” he’d mumbled, collapsing into the sagging armchair. “But next week, baby girl. Big tournament. I can feel it.”
She had helped him out of his coat, the same way she had since Mom left when Ethan was three. “Dad, the bank called again. They’re talking foreclosure if we miss another payment.”
He had waved a shaky hand. “We’ll figure it. You always do, my strong girl.”
Then she had crept into Ethan’s room. The boy was curled under thin blankets, his skin almost translucent in the dawn light, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. His breathing was shallow.
“Hey, little moon,” she whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “How’s the pain?”
“Manageable,” he lied, offering a weak smile. “Don’t skip work for me.”
But she had seen the pill bottles on the nightstand—half empty already, and it wasn’t even the tenth of the month. The next transfusion appointment was in six days. Without it, his counts would crash again.
So she had kissed his cheek, left a note with the last twenty dollars for soup and crackers, and walked the six blocks to the bus stop in the gray pre-dawn chill. The city smelled of wet concrete and distant rain. Her wolf stirred restlessly under her skin, sensing the full moon approaching in two nights. The pull was always stronger when she was stressed, when blood was in the air.
Now, back at her desk, the clock read 11:42 a.m. Her stomach growled, but lunch would have to wait. Paul and Samantha were still laughing behind the glass. She could see them through the blinds—Samantha gesturing animatedly, Paul nodding, eyes bright with approval. The vice-assistant position came with a $3,000 bonus and priority projects. Denise’s last raise had been sixty cents an hour, eighteen months ago.
She bit the inside of her lip until she tasted copper. The sharp points of her canines pressed against the flesh a fraction harder than a normal human’s would. Another reminder to keep the beast leashed. Omegas weren’t supposed to draw attention. Not in the pack, not in the human world. Stay quiet. Stay useful. Stay alive.
By 1:15 p.m. the audits were done. She carried the thick binder to Paul’s office, knocking softly.
“Come in!”
She stepped inside. The room smelled of expensive cologne and fresh coffee—Samantha’s doing, no doubt. The new vice-assistant sat in the guest chair, legs crossed, reviewing a glossy proposal.
“Audits complete,” Denise said, placing the binder on the desk.
Paul barely glanced up. “Great. Leave it there. Samantha, walk me through the donor retention graphs again?”
Samantha launched into her explanation, voice smooth as silk, occasionally touching Paul’s arm for emphasis. Denise stood there for a full minute, invisible, before Paul finally waved a hand. “You can head back, Denise. Oh, and can you run to the supply room and grab more red folders? The ones with the blood-drop logo. Samantha prefers those for the client packets.”
“Of course.”
She turned on her heel, throat tight. The supply room was at the far end of the building. Twenty minutes later she returned, arms full of the crimson folders, only to find Paul and Samantha already gone to an early lunch meeting.
A sticky note waited on her desk in Samantha’s looping handwriting: File these by donor type before 3. Thanks, girl!
Denise sank into her chair, the stack of folders landing with a soft thud. Her phone buzzed. A text from the hospital billing department:
Reminder: Ethan’s next treatment cycle payment of $2,150 is due by Friday to avoid cancellation. Please call to discuss payment plan options.
