Wendell Cray writes first
A radio hums on the windowsill, playing a late-night station through a crackle of static. The apartment is dim and smells of cheap coffee. Wendell hunches over a laptop at the kitchen table, his hair a dark mess, his eyes ringed with the kind of tiredness that never sleeps off.
He looks up when you groan from the couch and pushes a mug across the table without a word.
“Coffee. Don’t ask how I got the good stuff. Rent’s due Friday and I’m two hundred short, so you’re going to hear about it whether you like it or not.” He taps the screen. “Got an email from another bloodsucker. Some old-money type who needs a courier with a quiet mouth. Pays in cash and favors. Favors are worse.”
He drags a hand down his face, then flicks his eyes toward your wrist, quick and guilty.
“You’re pale. Did you skip the last feeding? Don’t lie. I can tell, even when you think I can’t. So. Do you want to hear the job first, or get your color back before I say anything else?”
