Chapter Text
Prologue: The City of Mirrors
Max doesn’t believe in monsters, but the city moves like it’s built for them.
Everything in Monaco gleams too cleanly. The sidewalks are marble, not just stone. The traffic flows in low murmurs of electric engines. The light reflects off the bay like glass over blood, and the buildings rise so white and pristine they don’t seem built for people. They seem built for something colder. Something more patient.
Max lives in a shoebox apartment above a pharmacy that never closes. The walls are thin. The streetlamp outside buzzes at odd hours. He keeps a towel shoved under the door to stop the drafts, and he sleeps in sweatpants all year round. It’s not much, but it’s close to the university and his side job at the track. That’s what matters. That—and the fact that no one notices if he comes home at 3 a.m. or doesn’t come home at all.
He doesn’t think about vampires, not really. Monaco pretends not to believe in them. Which means they must be real.
The city has always been too quiet. Too expensive and fast.
Too beautiful, in that way that makes your skin itch.
🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸
The third medical invoice arrives on a Thursday, curled at the corners like it already knows he won’t pay it. Max finds it on the floor when he gets home, tucked under his door with a polite red stamp bleeding through the paper.
He stares at it while the kettle boils. Doesn’t open it. He already knows the number. He just doesn’t want to feel it yet.
That night, he can’t sleep. His ribs ache. The bruise from the kart crash three weeks ago hasn’t healed properly, and he’s starting to worry it’s not a bruise at all. But hospital visits are expensive, and he’s out of coverage for the semester. Again.
So at 2:41 a.m., he opens his laptop. Types: private blood donation program monaco medical care
Then: paid clinical trials discreet
Then: ethical vampire programs europe
He’s not sure why he adds vampire. Maybe because someone said it once at a party, half-drunk on gin and gossip. That there are vampires in Monaco. That they don’t hunt—they subscribe. Quiet, private donors. No risk. High-end, high-payout. If you’re lucky, you get a real one. If you’re very lucky, they want to keep you.
It sounded like bullshit. Still does.
But the fourth link down is plain white with gold serif text. The domain reads: www.sangfroid.care
🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸
He clicks.
The site is nothing like he expected. No gothic fonts. No red. Just clean lines. Pale backgrounds. A looping logo that might be a stylized S, or a vein, or a serpent.
“Sangfroid is a premium care network connecting qualified human donors with licensed non-human clients. All interactions are discreet, ethical, and medically supported. Donors receive generous stipends, ongoing care, and guaranteed personal boundaries.”
There’s a tab for New Applicants. He clicks it. Blinks.
SCREENING FORM: STAGE 1
This process will take approximately 8–10 minutes. Please answer honestly.
Have you donated blood before?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
Max checks No and bites his bottom lip.
Are you currently undergoing medical treatment?
[ ] Yes
[x] No
[ ] Prefer not to say
He hesitates. That bruise doesn’t count, right? The ice packs? The sleeplessness?
Have you experienced the following within the last 6 months:
– Significant blood loss
– Signs of anemia
– Unexplained fainting
– Uncontrolled blood pressure
– Heightened sexual arousal during medical care
Max frowns. “What the fuck,” he mutters. Scrolls. Then scrolls back.
He clicks No for each one. Pauses longer than he should at the last.
Then the questions shift.
STAGE 2: PREFERENCE MATRIX
Please rank your level of comfort with the following donor experiences:
Skin-to-skin contact – [ 1 2 3 4 5 ]
Intimate proximity (less than 50cm) – [ 1 2 3 4 5 ]
Feeding from the wrist – [ 1 2 3 4 5 ]
Feeding from the throat – [ 1 2 3 4 5 ]
Blood drawn during states of heightened arousal – [ 1 2 3 4 5 ]
Max stares. Blinks.
“…Jesus.”
He taps 3 for the first few. Hovers at Feeding from the throat. Swipes it to 2, then immediately back to 3.
On the last one, his hand freezes. His stomach curls. He almost closes the tab.
Instead, he drags the slider to 1.
Then 2.
Then back to 1.
“Not happening,” he mumbles. “That’s not—no.”
STAGE 3: CONSENT TO DISCLOSURE AND MATCHING
Sangfroid reserves the right to match qualified donors with clients based on physiological compatibility, scent markers, emotional thresholds, and psychological profile. Do you consent to full access to your screening data, scent samples, and EEG scan results for matching purposes?
“…My what?”
He scrolls. There’s a little (i) button beside scent samples. It reads: Collected via standard sterilized swab from nape and inner wrist.
He exhales, slow and shaking. His ribs ache with the movement. The invoice on the floor seems louder than the fan in his laptop. He presses Yes.
FINAL STAGE: DONOR AGREEMENT & MEDICAL CARE WAIVER
The contract is mostly blacked out unless you sign. Standard clauses. NDAs. Withdrawal terms. Emergency clause 4.7 about nonstandard feeding reactions, which makes his mouth go dry.
He hovers over the signature box.
His hand is sweating on the trackpad.
Still.
What’s the worst that could happen?
You don’t believe in monsters, he tells himself again.
Then he glances down at the red-stamped envelope on the floor. His ribs throb.
By 3:12 a.m., the form is filled, the signature sent, the confirmation pinged.
He doesn’t believe in monsters.
But he’s willing to sell his blood to one.
Just in case.