Page 26 of Bitten Shifter

I scowl at the stack of papers in front of me. Now Paul’s insisting we talk. He won’t sign the bloody thing unless we meet in person.

So I have to see him.

Shit. I don’t know what I was thinking—somehow getting through this without facing him again? It was never going to happen. Even after all these months, the thought of seeing his face makes me want to puke.

The only saving grace is that our ‘friendly chat’ will be under the watchful eyes of our solicitors.

Despite his Human First political connections, Paul has permission to enter the Enterprise Zone. The solicitor assures me they will keep everything professional and on track. Still, one meeting, one conversation… it feels like climbing into a pit with a poisonous snake.

I groan and flop back in my chair. What I want—what I really want—is to bounce my forehead off my desk until both the headache and my divorce magically disappear.

It’s already been a long, crappy day. Some ancient code decided to implode—legacy stuff from before my time. Not my fault, but I’ve seen the issue before, so I know how to fix it. Hours of running scripts, debugging, and tweaking lines of code later, the system finally begrudged me its cooperation.

The problem? I’ve worked past my hours. Now it’s dark outside, and instead of heading home like a normal person, I’m debating whether to call for a security escort.

The human escort service.

Ugh.

I’ve got a change of clothes in my bag. Maybe I will grab a room and sleep off the darkness instead. That feels safer than braving the streets.

The shifters might have fancy protective walls, but they didn’t exactly kick everyone out when they took over—not here, at least. Not like their shifter-only sector. I shudder. No, that was a bloodbath.

Here in the Enterprise Zone, they conceded, allowing other derivatives to live here as long as everyone followed their rules.The high walls and strict security clearance give the illusion of safety, but unvetted people still wander about. I know it’s been forty years, but that’s nothing to a vampire.

Even the vetted ones—the ones with all the proper identification—don’t guarantee safety. Just because someone has the paperwork does not mean they are friendly or have curbed their nasty appetites.

Zone Two might have beautiful streets and the air of a tranquil park, but for a human like me, it’s like being a deer dropped into the savannah with lions and tigers circling.

Maybe coffee will help clear my head. I groan, the sound echoing faintly in the empty glass corridor as I wander toward the nearest coffee station—what everyone calls the brew room.

These suspended offices feel like they are floating inside a glass shell. I glance at the far wall, which offers an unobstructed view of the atrium, the security area, and the visitor’s lounge far below. It’s an impressive sight, but I’m glad I don’t have an issue with heights. For some, this setup would be pure vertigo-inducing hell.

With my anxiety gnawing at me, I consider working through the night instead. Sleep is overrated anyway, and at least in the quiet, I can get things done without a team of anxious developers hovering over my shoulder.

This late, the codebase is all mine. I can comb through it uninterrupted, troubleshooting in peace. My technomancy often detects issues lurking below the surface, sometimes highlighting problems before they happen. Depending on what I find, I can fix them quietly or submit a request.

I nudge the door open, and the lights flicker on automatically. Sleek black counters gleam under a white lowered ceiling and soft recessed lighting. A row of machines lines the wall, ready to dispense any hot or cold drink you want. There’s a small refrigerator in the corner stocked with various milkoptions, and a cabinet with mugs arranged in neat, Ministry-approved rows.

I ignore the generic pod machines and head straight for the silver beast. I warm up my wrists, crack my knuckles, and give it a friendly pat. “Hello, Wee Beastie.”

I’m all for giving inanimate objects a personality and a name, and this one feels like an old friend.

I’m chuffed I can use it—I think I’m the only one who can. When I was sixteen, I worked at an amusement park, learning to make doughnuts, candy floss, and the perfect Mr Whippy ice cream cone. I mastered the art of cappuccinos there too. That’s where my love for good coffee began.

Having a commercial-grade machine at work feels like a personal triumph. The amount the Ministry spends on staff perks blows my mind. A machine like this in a human-sector job? Not a chance. But I’m not complaining.

I grind the beans, press a few buttons, and let the silver beast work its magic. A perfect mug of coffee emerges, rich and steaming. I know full well that caffeine this late in the day is a terrible idea, but let’s face it—coffee isn’t what is likely to kill me.

No, I’m far more likely to be eaten by a shifter—and not in the fun way.

I wipe down the machine and pick up my mug, the steam curling upward in warm, comforting spirals. Inhaling deeply, I savour the rich aroma before bringing the cup to my lips. It’s hot, but my ‘asbestos mouth’ handles it just fine.

Then I hear it—a noise outside, sharp and sudden.

I ignore it, focusing on my first sip, but it happens again. Louder this time. A bang. Curiosity prickles at the edges of my caffeine-fuelled calm. I set the mug down and move toward the door, cracking it open just enough to peek outside.

What I see makes me gasp, step back, and oh-so-carefully close the door.

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