I'm a vampire. Recently, I've been frequenting a mansion to feed on a comatose man's blood. Since he can't speak, no one knows I'm drinking his blood. Three months passed. One day, as I was feeding from his neck, I heard a voice above my head say, "Could you stop targeting just one side?" 0 I'm a vampire. I don't like drinking those pre-packaged blood bags. I prefer to drink hot, fresh blood straight from the human body. Hot, with that metallic taste—if you savor it carefully, there's even a sweet aftertaste. Baby loves it. But getting caught drinking human blood has pretty serious consequences, so I set my sights on a comatose young man in a mansion. The coma patient's name is Ethan Sinclair. He's young, good-looking, and most importantly, he's in a coma with no awareness. When I drink his blood, he won't panic and scream, and he won't throw garlic at me. Even better, occasionally I can suck out tiny blood clots. They're chewy, bouncy, soft, and have a nice texture—like the pearls in bubble tea. Hehe. I just love holding this comatose young man late at night, burying my head in his neck and drinking contentedly. Though he's comatose, his body is warm. A cold-blooded creature like me loves pressing my hands and feet against his warm body. So cozy. It's not hard to see—I really like him. I often see his mother crying, saying if she dies someday, who will take care of him. I'd be clinging to the wall outside his window, raising my hand high, thinking: Me! I'll take care of him! I'll carry him back to my coffin and take care of him just like I take care of the young poplar trees beside my grave. Hehe. But I'm a vampire with a conscience. To prevent leaving marks from constantly biting Ethan Sinclair, every time I finish drinking his blood, I drip a drop of my blood on his wound. His wound heals instantly. Besides that, I also researched in the human knowledge database how to care for coma patients. The knowledge database says that to prevent bedsores in coma patients, you need to turn them frequently. So I hold Ethan Sinclair and flip him from left to right, then from right to left. The database says some coma patients can sense the outside world, they just can't express it. So if conditions permit, you should frequently let them experience the beauty of the external world—things like sunlight, breeze, floral scents... Seeing the word "sunlight," I experienced phantom pain for ten seconds. Also, I'm allergic to pollen. It's pretty bizarre for a vampire—or rather, a Chinese jiangshi—to be allergic to pollen, but my existence itself is bizarre, so I don't dwell on it too much. So I can only carry him on my back at night, jump out the window, and leap to the tallest tree in a quiet nature reserve. The night wind whooshes around us. I turn my head to Ethan Sinclair, draped over my shoulder, and say, "I treat you well, right? You have to repay me. From now on, only I can drink your blood. If other vampires try to drink your blood, you need to clench your anus really hard. That way your blood vessels will constrict, they'll have a hard time sucking, and they won't drink your blood." "Okay?" Ethan Sinclair doesn't respond. Me: "Then I'll take that as a yes." The knowledge database also says you need to frequently help coma patients exercise their bodies, or they'll develop blood clots. Well, I can skip that one. With my abilities, I Grahamarantee I can suck them all out in one go. 0
The two caregivers looking after Ethan Sinclair wanted to resign. Mrs. Sinclair said, "Is it the salary? I can give you a raise!" Caregiver Mary clutched her head and said, "No, no, ma'am. Fifty thousand a month is already plenty. It's just... it's just that for some reason, every night we suddenly black out like someone knocked us unconscious, and when we wake up it's already daytime!" Caregiver Linda trembled all over and said, "Yes, ma'am! We would never lie! Your family is so prominent, you should have someone come check the house! There might be... something unclean in the house!" After the two caregivers left, Mrs. Sinclair said to her assistant with a pale face, "Go find a capable priest or psychic." "Yes, ma'am." "And find eight more caregivers. Four for day shifts, four for night shifts." "Yes, ma'am." Back in my coffin, I rummaged through my wardrobe and pulled out a caregiver's uniform. I took out a notebook and picked up a brush to write my resume. Lily Baker Age: 28 Education: Middle school dropout Work experience: Three months as a caregiver. Personality: Optimistic, kind, knows how to repay kindness, brave. The next day, I took my drafted resume and intercepted an elementary school student. I traded a gold hairpin for her help typing up my resume. The kid glanced at me, pulled her backpack to the front, took out pen and paper, wrote it up smoothly, tore off the page neatly and stuffed it into my hand, then patted my arm: "Do your best! Every trade produces its master!" Then she turned and left. I chased after her with the gold hairpin, but the kid held her head high and said, "A small favor, not worth mentioning!" Then she walked away coolly, without even leaving me a glance. 0
At the food stall where the assistant eats, I held the phone and sighed, "Sigh, after the young man at my last job woke up, his family let me go. I wanted to rest for a month before continuing work." "Well, it's because his ancestors accumulated merit that the coma patient woke up. It doesn't have much to do with me." "But I should thank them for letting me accumulate experience caring for coma patients." "Mm, I bought a ticket home for the day after tomorrow." The assistant sitting nearby listened with brightening eyes. When I mentioned buying tickets, the assistant patted my shoulder: "Miss, there's a caregiving job with a monthly salary of eighty thousand dollars. Would you consider it?" —— That night, I followed the assistant and walked openly into the mansion. Because I told the assistant I'm allergic to sunlight, I could only work at night. After the assistant reported to Mrs. Sinclair, she said she'd take me back for a trial first. In the mansion's spacious European-style living room, Mrs. Sinclair sat upright on the sofa looking at me, smiling: "So young and already working as a caregiver?" I nodded: "My family is poor. I dropped out of middle school and started working." Mrs. Sinclair: "I saw your resume. You're very suitable. Can you start today? Three-day trial period, and if you pass we'll sign a long-term contract. We'll also pay for insurance and benefits." As I was debating whether to tell her I don't need insurance and benefits, Mrs. Sinclair said, "Oh, don't worry. Even if you don't pass the trial, it's still 4,000 dollars per day." No need to complicate things. I agreed immediately: "Okay, thank you, ma'am!" On my first day, the other seven caregivers hadn't been found yet. When I pushed open Ethan Sinclair's bedroom door, large swaths of moonlight poured in through his floor-to-ceiling windows. The gentle moonlight bathed him, making him look like Sleeping Beauty from a fairy tale waiting for a prince's kiss to wake him. Mrs. Sinclair stood by Ethan Sinclair's bed, looking at her beloved son with tender expression: "Before my son got sick, he was a sunny, kind, good child. His father and I were too busy with business to take care of him, but he worked hard and got into the best medical school. Undergraduate, master's, PhD, plus residency—a full thirteen years. He was so busy studying and working he didn't even get a girlfriend." Mrs. Sinclair turned to look at me. She was smiling: "Do you know what happened later that made my son end up like this?" I shook my head, though my intuition told me it must be a very tragic story. Mrs. Sinclair's expression was calm: "A young woman who had suffered domestic abuse asked my son to perform an abortion procedure for her. The surgery was successful. When my son was explaining post-operative precautions to the family and returning to his office, he was pushed down the stairs by that woman's husband." Mrs. Sinclair said softly, "If there had been even the slightest error in the surgery, it would have been what my son deserved. But all the evaluations said there was nothing wrong with the procedure. After my son started working, he basically lived at the hospital, donating most of his salary to the hospital's relief fund. He wore those Crocs year-round, just putting cotton covers over them in winter. I often told him there was no need to suffer like that—our family didn't need that small doctor's salary. But my son just smiled and said, 'But I took an oath, Mom!'" The muscles in Mrs. Sinclair's face trembled uncontrollably as she forcibly suppressed her emotions to keep from becoming hysterical: "My poor child, you pitied others, but who will pity you!" Mrs. Sinclair cried. A woman who could build such a successful business and care for her comatose son so well that he only looked asleep—how could she not know better than to share too much with a stranger? It was just that she was in too much pain. Her heart had been ripped out, and she could only ease her pain through telling her story. The assistant stepped forward, handed Mrs. Sinclair tissues, and gently patted her shoulder to comfort her. After a while, Mrs. Sinclair finally composed herself again and looked up. She held my hand and said earnestly, "I'm sorry, Lily, for making you witness that. I'm entrusting my son to you." Me: "Don't worry, ma'am. I'll take good care of Ethan." That night when I drank Ethan Sinclair's blood, for the first time I tasted bitterness. This is one of my abilities—the blood of people with different emotions has different flavors to me. When happy, blood is sweet. When sad, blood is bitter. When angry, blood is spicy. When afraid, blood tastes like wasabi... This was also why I loved drinking Ethan Sinclair's blood. Other people's blood was either explosively spicy or unbearably wasabi-flavored. Rarely was there someone like Ethan Sinclair with such pure, original-flavored blood. Hot, with that metallic taste—if you savor it carefully, there's even a sweet aftertaste. Baby loves it. Ethan Sinclair, who usually had no emotional fluctuations, why did he taste bitter today? I gently withdrew my fangs and said to Ethan Sinclair, "Ethan Sinclair, don't be sad. I'll take good care of you and help take care of your mother too." I affectionately sniffed the wound on his neck: "Want me to kill that bad Grahamy for you?" "For us vampires, killing someone is just a matter of one bite." Ethan Sinclair's blood was still bitter. Me: "Are you determined to cosplay bitter coffee tonight?" My humor didn't get the laugh it deserved. The bitterness flowing from Ethan Sinclair's blood vessels just lightened a bit. I stuck out my tonGrahame and gently licked the wound on his neck: "Not bad. It tastes like bitter coffee with a spoonful of sugar added. Hehe, this Chinese jiangshi finally got to drink American coffee." I slipped my hand around Ethan's waist: "In a couple days, the cherry blossom grove by my grave will bloom. I'll take you to see it, okay?" "Okay, thank you, baby." I lowered my voice, imitating a man's deep voice. I looked up at Ethan Sinclair's profile, wondering what his voice sounded like. "Ethan Sinclair, is your voice as pleasant as your blood?" In the silent deep night, no one answered me. 0
I'm a vampire. I've been alive for a very, very long time. I'm not threatened by birth, aging, illness, or death. I'm not bound by morality or law. I have no pursuit of fame or fortune. I wander through the world for only one thing—a mouthful of fresh blood. A mouthful of delicious fresh blood. Tempted by a coma patient's beauty and fresh blood, I came to his side and became his caregiver. The Sinclair family's compensation for caregivers was very generous. By normal standards, I wouldn't even pass the interview, but Mrs. Sinclair still kept me. Because Mrs. Sinclair said that from the first moment she saw me, she could feel I was special. I had a certain quality about me, as if I were a messenger sent by God. Mrs. Sinclair is a Christian. I wonder what Mrs. Sinclair would think if she knew I was a vampire. Would she feel that calling me Satan's colleaGrahame would be more appropriate than God's messenger? Anyway, in short, I signed a long-term contract with the Sinclair family. My ultimate goal was to hold Ethan Sinclair and live a carefree life. To establish a firm foothold, I could say I made up for lack of talent with hard work. During the day I studied nursing knowledge by lamplight, and at night I watched Ethan Sinclair without blinking, rushing over at the first sign he needed to relieve himself or needed hydration. I never delayed turning him or giving him massages. A month passed. The rumors about the Sinclair house being haunted gradually faded, but in the caregiver circles around the Sinclair family, they all cursed me as a scab. Susan, who worked the night shift with me, never let me see her pupils—she just rolled her eyes whenever she saw me. She'd been in this line of work for fifteen years, so naturally she was very experienced. After seeing that I just loved to work hard and never complained to Mrs. Sinclair about her sleeping on night shifts, snoring, stealing Ethan Sinclair's high-end bedding and nutritional supplements... she was finally willing to look at me with her pupils. One night around 3 AM, she woke up on the chair choking on her own drool. When she saw me turning Ethan Sinclair, she rubbed her eyes, sat up and said, "No need to be so diligent. No one comes to check at night. You can sleep a bit. Look at your dark circles—you look like a vampire." When I was still human, my skin was pale. After becoming non-human, my skin had no color at all, yet my lips were blood red. When I turned my head, I could rotate at a constant speed without limits, and my eyes could stay open without blinking. I looked at her eerily and smiled bleakly: "You found me out." At 3 AM, Susan was indeed frightened. She gripped the chair and straightened up, her face deathly pale: "You..." "Hehe." I laughed once, stopped scaring her, and turned back to exercise Ethan Sinclair's legs: "My mom always says that about me too. Says I'm a vampire. If she hadn't given birth to me, my three younger brothers could have drunk more milk, grown taller and stronger and smarter, and wouldn't be like now—not one of them can find a wife. So I should earn more money for my brothers to help them get married." I rambled off the top of my head, and Susan actually believed it. She let out a long breath, then came over and patted my shoulder: "Poor areas are like that... Anyway, sis was just teasing you earlier. Don't take it to heart!" I nodded and smiled sincerely and cheerfully: "Don't worry, Susan! I know you're a good person!" "Oh my..." Susan, praised by me, seemed a bit flustered: "You go rest a bit. I'll take care of Ethan." Yeah right. In a while you'll be sleeping on his bed and I'll have to move you off. "It's okay, Susan. I slept during the day. I'm not sleepy." Susan's butt didn't even leave the chair: "Alright then! Sis won't be polite with you! You sleep the day after tomorrow. I mainly have to watch my grandson tomorrow." Of course, the day after tomorrow she still snored like there was a three-wheeled motorcycle in the room that wouldn't start up in winter. The funny thing was it seemed to affect Ethan Sinclair's sleep. He had faint dark circles under his eyes too, and his blood wasn't as sweet when I drank it—it was slightly spicy. My taste is pretty mild. I don't like spicy food. So the next night, Mrs. Sinclair, who had insomnia from drinking coffee, appeared at Ethan Sinclair's door. Susan was fired on the spot.
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