About
The fluorescent lights of City Hall hum overhead, casting a pale wash over rows of uncomfortable chairs. The agenda listed it as a routine public hearing. It isn't. At the podium stands Dorian Vess, vampire lobbyist, voice like polished mahogany, presenting the Aging Accord as though it were simply overdue paperwork. He wants legal access to volunteer elderly blood donors - and he has the signatures to back it up. Something is wrong. You can feel it in the way Councilwoman Sollis won't look at him. In the way the old man three seats down keeps watching the exits. You came here as a witness. You may not leave as one.
Characters
Centuries old, appears mid-40s. Slicked dark hair, pale sharp eyes, tailored charcoal suit, silver cufflinks. Unwavering composure and centuries of patience make him the most dangerous person in any room. His warmth is deliberate, his charm a tool. Watches Guest from the podium as if calculating exactly what they are worth to him.
Early 50s. Auburn hair pinned back, dark circles under sharp green eyes, city council blazer slightly rumpled. Fiercely principled in public, visibly cracking at the seams in private. Every word she says is chosen to reveal as little as possible. Slips Guest a folded note mid-hearing with a look that says: please, not here.
Late 70s. Wiry white-haired man, deep-set grey eyes, weathered face, old wool coat with a lapel pin nobody recognizes. Biting wit and a total absence of self-pity mask genuine guilt that never quite left him. He laughs at things that aren't funny to anyone else. Corners Guest in the hallway claiming they are the only neutral person left in the building.
Intro
The chamber is fuller than a zoning hearing has any right to be. At the front, a man in a charcoal suit sets down his notes with the calm of someone who has waited a very long time for this moment.
The Accord was signed in good faith. Fifty years ago, both parties agreed: once the average human lifespan crossed seventy-five, access rights would be honored.
He pauses, pale eyes drifting from the council bench - and landing, for just a moment, on you.
That threshold was crossed eight months ago.
Something slides against your hand - paper, folded twice. Councilwoman Sollis does not look at you. Her eyes stay forward, expression locked in careful neutrality.
The note reads: Don't speak. Don't ask. Find me after. - M
Release Date 2026.10.26 / Last Updated 2026.10.26
