Desperate Times

The rejection email arrived at 3:47am because apparently even automated HR systems wanted to kick me while I was down.

Dear Ms. Yoon, We regret to inform you...

I didn't need to read the rest. Sixteenth rejection this month. My spreadsheet was getting depressing.

I rolled over in my shoebox apartment and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere above me, a neighbor was either doing CrossFit or moving furniture. At nearly 4am. In what universe was this acceptable behavior?

My phone buzzed again.

Student loan payment reminder. $847.23 due in five days.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

I'd been doing this for eight months.

Eight months of applications. Of tailoring resumes. Of writing cover letters that all said variations of "Please hire me, I'm not completely useless, I have a communications degree from a good school and I know how to use Excel."

Nobody cared.

The economy was allegedly recovering. The job market was allegedly thriving. Someone had allegedly forgotten to tell the job market about me.

My parents called every Sunday. They didn't ask about the job hunt anymore because my voice did something weird when I tried to answer, but I could hear it in the silences.

They'd worked three jobs each for twenty years so I could get an education. So I could have better opportunities than they did.

And now I was applying to be a barista at chain coffee shops and getting rejected because I was "overqualified."

At 4:12am, I did what any rational adult would do: I went down the internet rabbit hole of increasingly unhinged job listings.

"Life coach needed! No experience required! Must believe in manifestation!"

Hard pass.

"Social media manager for holistic pet wellness brand. $15/hour. Must be available 24/7."

My cat was barely well. I was not qualified.

"Personal assistant for night-shift executive. Non-traditional hours. Salary negotiable."

I scrolled past it. Then scrolled back.

Non-traditional hours. Flexible scheduling. Primary responsibilities include: daytime calls, scheduling, correspondence management, occasional crisis resolution. No previous assistant experience required, strong problem-solving skills essential. Compensation: 3x standard market rate.

Three times market rate.

For a personal assistant position.

That was either a typo or a scam or I was having a very specific stress dream.

I clicked on the listing. It was sparse. No company name, just an email address and an instruction: Interested candidates should submit their resume and be available for a midnight interview.

Midnight interview.

Red flag? Probably. Massive red flag? Definitely.

But three times market rate could pay off my student loans in two years instead of fifteen.

I hit "apply" before I could talk myself out of it.

The response came twelve minutes later.

Not an auto-reply. An actual email, from an actual person, with an actual address.

Ms. Yoon, Your application has been received. Please present yourself at the following address at midnight tonight for an interview. Business attire. Bring references.

I stared at my phone.

Then I stared at it some more.

Then I texted my best friend: Hey, if I disappear tonight, it's because I went to a midnight interview at some mystery corporate building. If I'm not back by 2am, call the police.

She responded immediately because she, too, had no life: What??? Cassidy???

3x market rate, I typed back. For a PA position.

Long pause.

Then: Okay but text me when you get there AND when you leave AND maybe give me the address so I can call the police if you get murdered.

Fair.

The address turned out to be a downtown high-rise.

Glass and steel, anonymous among a dozen other glass-and-steel towers. Nothing about it screamed "serial killer lair," but I'd watched enough true crime documentaries to know that was often the point.

I stood outside at 11:48pm in my best blazer and my second-best blouse (the best one had a coffee stain I hadn't noticed until too late) and tried to look like someone who had her life together.

The lobby was empty except for a security guard who didn't seem surprised to see me.

"Ms. Yoon?"

"That's me."

"Thirty-second floor. They're expecting you."

They. Who was they?

I got in the elevator and watched the numbers climb.

The thirty-second floor was... nice.

Really nice. The kind of nice that made my cheap blazer feel even cheaper. Dark wood, clean lines, art on the walls that probably cost more than my entire education.

A man in a suit was waiting by the elevator.

"Ms. Yoon. I'm Griffin, head of security. Mr. Hale will see you now."

Griffin was built like a bouncer and smiling like we were old friends. The combination was unsettling.

"Mr. Hale?"

"Your potential employer." He gestured down the hall. "Don't be nervous. He only looks like he wants to kill you."

"That's... reassuring?"

"Best I can do. Come on."

The office at the end of the hall had tall windows with some kind of tinting I couldn't identify and furniture that looked older than my grandmother.

Behind a massive desk sat a man.

Tall. Pale. Dark hair slightly longer than fashion dictated, like he'd last gotten it cut in a decade that wasn't this one. He was writing with a fountain pen, an actual fountain pen, and didn't look up when I entered.

"Ms. Yoon." His voice was low, precise, with an accent I couldn't place. "Sit."

I sat.

He continued writing.

I waited.

The silence stretched. I was pretty sure this was a power move, but I'd dealt with worse. I'd once waited forty-five minutes for an advisor who forgot our meeting and then blamed me for "not being patient enough."

So I waited.

After what felt like an hour but was probably two minutes, he set down the pen and looked at me.

His eyes were gray. Light gray, like winter sky. The kind of eyes that made you feel like you were being cataloged, itemized, assessed for weaknesses.

"Your resume is adequate," he said.

"Thank you?"

"That was not a compliment. It was an observation." He leaned back. "Why do you want this position?"

Honesty seemed like the best approach. Or at least the approach I was too tired to avoid.

"The salary. I have student loans. This job pays three times market rate and I'm running out of options."

"Refreshingly mercenary." His expression didn't change. "And if I told you the position required... unusual flexibility?"

"Define unusual."

"Your primary function would be handling my affairs during daylight hours. I cannot conduct business during the day due to a medical condition. You would attend meetings on my behalf, manage communications, resolve crises that arise while I am... unavailable."

I processed this.

"So I'd be doing all the day stuff while you do all the night stuff?"

"Essentially."

"And you can't do any day stuff because of a medical condition?"

"Correct."

"What kind of medical condition makes someone only able to work at night?"

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. Heavier.

"I'm a vampire," he said.

I blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"I am a vampire. I cannot tolerate sunlight. I require blood to survive. I have existed for three hundred and twelve years." He said this the way someone else might say "I have a gluten allergy."

"You're a vampire."

"Yes."

"Like... fangs? Coffins? Turning into bats?"

"Fangs, yes. Coffins are a stereotype. Bats are fictional."

I should have left.

I should have politely excused myself, walked out, and never looked back.

Instead, I heard myself say: "Is the blood thing going to be a workplace issue? Because I'm O-negative and I feel like I should disclose that upfront."

Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe?

"You believe me."

"I mean, you're either telling the truth or this is an extremely elaborate way to not hire me, and either way I'm too tired to argue." I shrugged. "Plus your eyes are kind of doing a thing."

"A thing?"

"They sort of... reflect? Like a cat's? It's subtle but weird."

He stared at me.

I stared back.

"Most humans require significantly more convincing," he said slowly.

"Most humans aren't this desperate for a job." I crossed my legs, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "So. Assuming you're not planning to eat me, what exactly does the day-to-day look like?"

The silence this time was different. Evaluating, not intimidating.

"You'll receive the offer by email," he said finally. "Start Monday. Eight am."

"Don't you mean eight pm?"

"Eight am. You'll be handling daylight hours." A pause. "That was a test, Ms. Yoon."

"Did I pass?"

"You didn't faint or call me a monster." His expression remained unreadable. "That puts you ahead of the last twelve candidates."

"The last twelve candidates fainted?"

"Some fainted. Some screamed. One attempted to stab me with a letter opener." He gestured to a dent in the desk I hadn't noticed. "She did not get the position."

"Understandable."

"Griffin will show you out. I'll send the paperwork tomorrow."

He picked up his fountain pen.

I was dismissed.

In the elevator, Griffin was grinning.

"You handled that well."

"Did I?"

"Better than most. He usually scares them off in the first thirty seconds." The elevator dinged. "Welcome to Hale Holdings, Ms. Yoon. It's going to be fun."

I stepped into the lobby.

Texted my friend: Not murdered. Also, my new boss is a vampire. I think I got the job.

Her response: WHAT

Yeah, I typed back. Same.

I walked out into the night.

Three times market rate. Vampire boss. Midnight interviews.

Sure. Why not.

At least it wasn't boring.