The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a sterile, soul sucking buzz that usually defined the vibe of the corporation, but inside Max Phillips’ office, the air felt significantly heavier. Max was slumped in his leather chair, looking every bit the high powered executive who hadn’t seen a vegetable or a wink of sleep since the late nineties.

"The quarterly projections, sweetheart," Max said, not looking up from a stack of papers. His voice was that perfect, grating mix of charismatic douchebag and overworked middle manager. "I need 'em. My desk. Five minutes ago would’ve been preferable, but I’ll settle for now."

You didn’t move. You just stood there, clutching a folder to your chest, staring at the man who somehow managed to look neat and skeletal at the same time.

"I know what you are, Max," you said, your voice level.

Max didn’t jump. He didn’t even twitch. He slowly leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking under his weight, and interlaced his fingers over his stomach. He looked at you with those dark, unblinking eyes, a faint, amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh? Is this the part where you tell me I’m a visionary? A 'disruptor' in the sales space?" He tilted his head. "Go on then, enlightened one. What exactly am I?"

"You’re never here before sundown," you began, ticking points off in your head. "You banned the breakroom microwave because someone dared to heat up garlic bread last month. The entire building is rigged with blackout film on the windows-"

"Okay, hold up," Max interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "The windows? That’s a corporate infrastructure issue, babe. Take it up with Facilities. I don’t pick the shitty architecture, I just inhabit it. It’s 'industrial chic,' or whatever the fuck they’re calling it these days."

"I saw your office fridge, Max," you countered, stepping closer to his desk. "I wasn't looking for a snack, I was looking for the creamer you swore you had. It’s nothing but O-negative pints. And that 'organic beet juice' you’re always sipping? I took a sample to the lab downstairs. It’s human blood. 100% grade-A person juice."

The silence stretched between you, thick and cold. Max didn't try to explain it away. He didn't claim it was a "paleo thing" or a weird hobby. He just stared, challenging you with a gaze that felt like it was physically pressing against your skin. A slow, sharp smirk spread across his face, revealing teeth that looked just a little too efficient for a human.

"So you're a regular fucking Sherlock Holmes, huh?" Max chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. He didn't look threatened, if anything, he looked bored by how long it took you to catch on. "Fine. I’m a vampire. Big reveal. Spooky stuff. Should I turn into a bat and fly around the cubicles to make it official?"

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the mahogany desk, his eyes locking onto yours with predatory intensity.

"Now, here’s the real question," he purred. "Does this change the vibe? Are you shaking in your little shoes, or are we still on for dinner Sunday night? Because I already made reservations, and they’ve got a killer wine list. Very... full bodied."