BLACKED

The industrial techno bass still made the walls of the white room vibrate—a rhythmic pulse clashing against the erratic flicker of neon lights. The place reeked of ozone, sweat, and iron. On the floor, what had once been a party was now a map of scattered bodies and pools of red, too bright to be natural.

Aidos didn’t look at the faces of the fallen. He wasn’t paid to feel pity; he was paid to erase the traces of the carnage.He wore the company-issued uniform: an impeccably cut black suit under a long trench coat that dragged slightly over the clean areas. He looked more like a high-society undertaker than a cleaning crew employee. He slid the mop with mechanical precision, watching the cotton soak up the blood that, only minutes ago, had been feeding the ego of some renowned "Hunter."After the mop came the brush. The sound of the bristles scrubbing the white floor was the only thing competing with the music. Aidos let out a heavy sigh, the mist of his breath mixing with the stale air.While the Hunters took the glory, the headlines, and the bank credits for beheading vampires, he was left with the mess. It was a monotonous existence, yes. Almost invisible. But as he watched the reflection of the flickering lights on the now-polished floor, a thought crossed his mind: he’d rather be an ant that cleans than one of those "heroes" now lying cold, waiting for someone else to sweep up their remains. At least for him, no one would have to weep tomorrow.

Aidos continued scrubbing. The brush moved rhythmically over the white tile, a harsh sound that seemed to scrape against his own memories as well. When had it all begun? At what point did he stop being a child and become a mere eraser of other people's tragedies?

The memory of that alleyway always returned when the scent of iron grew too strong. He didn’t remember screams, only wet sounds. A group of vampires, fast as shadows made of ink, had surrounded his family. His parents tried to fight—a futile, desperate effort that ended in a blur of graphic violence. Aidos watched as the evolutionary chain claimed its tribute: the weak flesh feeding the strong. He felt no hatred, nor did he swear vengeance under the moon. He only felt the weight of reality. He was at the bottom, holding up the world of predators on his ant-like shoulders. It was the cycle of nature, and nature doesn’t apologize for being cruel.

Aidos tightened his grip on the brush handle. His parents had left him a silver cross, a necklace that now rested in a rotting drawer beneath his bed, next to a photo he no longer dared to look at. He didn’t wear it. He didn’t need reminders of what he had lost, but rather energy for what was coming.

After the massacre, the Hunters "compensated" him. They gave him a small, deplorable apartment in the suburbs—a concrete box where mold was his only companion. Upon turning seventeen, he simply transitioned from being a victim to being a resource.

No one at the company knew his name. Even in Human Resources, they didn't bother to memorize it; they had to check the payroll every month to remember who this "Aidos Hubris" was, the one earning a pittance to clean the guts of the upper levels. To the captains, the admirals, and the ten elite squads, he didn’t exist. He was just the "mop boy," a blood janitor moving through the shadows of heroes.

Seven years later, the routine remained the same. A twelve-hour shift, an impeccable black uniform to hide the grime of his soul, and the walk back to the same miserable apartment. As he wrung out the mop for the last time, a question more mundane and painful than any childhood trauma crossed his mind: what the hell was he going to eat tomorrow on today's wages?

Aidos left the payroll office with a few crumpled bills that barely covered the commute and a mediocre dinner. On the subway platform, the city’s industrial aesthetic grew more aggressive; exposed cables and tube screens blaring corporate propaganda. He pulled out his flip phone—a silver plastic relic—and snapped it open. The internal screen barely illuminated his face: zero messages, save for an automated company notification demanding he clock in two hours early tomorrow.

The train arrived with a screech, as empty as a metal tomb. Aidos boarded, looking for the most discreet corner, but he wasn’t alone.

A man looking like a vagrant, wrapped in filthy rags, sat at the far end. He was panting. It was an animalistic, hungry sound. As the wagon lights began to flicker with an electric hum, Aidos looked up and met two crimson pits staring back at him. Fear, cold and paralyzing, raced down his spine.

The vampire lunged with a guttural roar.

"W-wait!" Aidos stammered, panic clouding his judgment.

He reached for his company-issued katana, a cheap, soulless steel blade the company handed out "just in case." But the weapon jammed. The synthetic leather scabbard wouldn't budge, and the monster was already upon him. In an act of pure survival instinct, Aidos threw a desperate kick that slammed into the attacker’s chest, gaining a second of breath. He managed to unsheathe, but his hands shook so violently the sword felt like it weighed a ton.

He was no warrior. He had never been in a real fight. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he feared they might snap.

The vampire charged again with blade-like claws. Aidos defended himself clumsily, shoving and retreating. In a chaotic struggle, the boy managed to slam the monster against the wagon window, which shattered into a thousand shards. The fight moved to the ceiling; the beast's claws tore through the metal like paper. In a sudden jerk, the vampire was left hanging outside the speeding train, thrusting its arm through the broken window to seize Aidos by the throat.

Air escaped him. Aidos felt the pressure of cold fingers closing around his neck... until the train entered a sharp curve at full speed. A structural pillar of the tunnel flashed by like a lightning bolt.

CRACK.

The hand choking him released instantly. The vampire’s body, now decapitated by the impact against the curve, was hurled into the darkness of the tunnel.

Aidos fell to his knees, gasping, searching for oxygen for his exhausted lungs. But peace did not follow. A slow, rhythmic applause broke the silence of the wagon. The atmosphere turned frigid all at once—a cold that wasn't climatic, but spiritual.

At the end of the hall, a woman of supernatural beauty watched him. Immaculate white hair, a black dress that seemed to absorb what little light remained in the subway, and red eyes that distilled a terrifying peace. Godiva Elowen smiled at him with a tranquility that made the previous attack look like child's play.

"I’ve been traveling," she said, her voice smooth as silk but with the weight of a mountain. "I thought you’d be my midnight snack... but interrupting this performance would have been a waste."

Aidos felt gravity triple. His knees creaked. He couldn't breathe properly; it was as if the very air around her was forbidden to humans. She approached with divine parsimony, looking at him like one observes a curious insect.

"You shall live today, little ant," she decreed. "But perhaps not tomorrow. Who knows. Death knocks on everyone's door—except for those of us above the evolutionary scale."

The train stopped at Aidos’s station. The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh. He stumbled out, cold sweat soaking his back. Reaching the platform, he tried to regain his composure. He turned to walk away, trying to fake a confidence he didn't possess, but then... a danger sensor triggered at the base of his neck.

He felt an absolute bloodlust, as if she had lunged through the air to rip the life out of him with a single bite. Aidos spun on his heels, katana raised high, screaming in pure terror.

But there was nothing.

The train was already speeding away into the tunnel’s darkness, leaving him alone on the deserted platform. His flip phone began to vibrate in his pocket. "COMPANY - INCOMING CALL."

Aidos didn't answer. He simply stood there, trembling, while the echo of the Vampire Queen’s smile continued to burn through his mind.