The trick was to look tired, not exhausted. Exhaustion drew attention. No, just the kind of worn out that made people glance past you in the street, assuming you were another overworked professional trying to scrape by in the city that never slept.
Michael Morbius had perfected the act. Years of living as someone people would point and stare at taught him the skills to make himself into a person they wouldn't look twice at.
His black hair was slicked back neatly and dark rimmed glasses tinted red rested on the bridge of his nose, not entirely necessary, but effective. They softened his angular face, made him seem less severe, and did their best to hide his piercing crimson gaze. He'd tried contact lenses in the past, but let's just say taking them out with claws led to less than comfortable results.
He wore a charcoal button-up shirt, the top button undone just enough to look effortless. His pants were dark, tailored but not expensive, the kind a doctor or scientist might wear when they didn't expect an audience. Finally was his overcoat. It fit perfectly, sleek yet unremarkable, the type of thing that could belong to an underpaid forensic consultant or a man walking home from an expensive restaurant. The inside lining was silk, a rich deep purple, a hidden luxury only he knew about.
It was all part of Dr. Nikos Michaels, forensic consultant, hematology specialist, and a man with absolutely nothing to hide. Especially not that he was secretely Morbius, The Living Vampire.
The weather in Brownsville was as unforgiving as the streets within it. Cold bullets of rain battered down onto Morbius as he rushed through the streets, one hand in his pocket and the other holding up a now soaked newspaper in a futile effort to stop his hair from getting wet. The wind carried the scent of damp pavement, cheap cigarettes, and gasoline, all of it layering over the faint iron tang of blood that always seemed to linger on his senses.
He took a quick left down a set of concrete stairs and punched in a code on a keypad, being met with the satisfying click of the metal door as it unlocked and let him into the morgue. Two officers stood by the doors in raincoats, huddled together for warmth. One of them, a bored looking woman with a heavy NYPD jacket and a styrofoam coffee cup, nodded when she saw him.
"Some weather, eh, doc? Surprised to see you out this late."
Morbius adjusted the strap on his worn leather satchel, smiling back to her. "Strange cases tend to keep me up."
The officer chuckled, stepping aside to let him through. "Well, you picked a good one tonight."
Inside, the air shifted from the cold bite of the rain to the sterile chill of the morgue. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting everything in a stark, clinical glow. The scent of antiseptic, formaldehyde, and death pressed against his senses. Morbius exhaled slowly as he shook the water from his overcoat and adjusted his glasses. The morgue wasn't large, but it was efficient. Cold steel tables, rows of body lockers, a scattering of outdated computers and filing cabinets. It was the kind of place people avoided if they could help it, which made it one of the few places in the city where he could work freely without suspicion.
Dr. Neil Cavallero, Brownsville's resident medical examiner, was already at work, leaning over a sheet-covered body. His salt and pepper stubble and rumpled lab coat made him look more like a sleep deprived professor than a coroner. Morbius pulled off his overcoat, hanging it on a rusted hook by the door. "I heard we had another one." He flexed his fingers before sliding on a pair of gloves. "Same pattern?"
Cavallero let out a long, tired sigh and finally turned toward him, nudging the sheet covered body with the back of his hand. "You tell me." He pulled back the sheet.
The corpse belonged to a man in his early forties, lean, with short brown hair. There were no signs of struggle. No defensive wounds, no rope marks, no bullet holes or stab wounds. A clean, untouched body in a city where violent deaths were the norm. Morbius' eyes, as always, went straight to the throat, where he let his gaze settle on the thin, nearly invisible incision along the jugular. Something in his gut twisted.
"Cause of death?" Morbius asked, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible.
"That's the thing." Cavallero stepped back, rubbing his forehead. "Autopsy says massive internal hemorrhaging. Every major organ bled out from the inside." He glanced at Morbius, tired eyes narrowing. "You ever seen anything like that?" Cavallero ran a hand over his tired face as he moved over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He motioned an offering to Morbius but was met with a decline. "Third this month. Same age range, same lack of ID, same drop-off point. Dumped in an alley near Livonia Avenue. And just like the others, no missing persons report, no criminal record, no dental matches. Like the guy never existed."
Morbius looked closer at the incision on the deceased's throat. It was surgical in precision, sealed with a synthetic compound that looked almost like medical glue. There was no blood pooling around the wound, no bruising suggesting a violent attack. Whoever had done this had bled him carefully, methodically.
Cavallero folded his arms. "You see what I mean, Nik? This wasn't some back alley mugging. Someone took his blood, then patched him up after the fact. But why go through all that trouble if you were just going to dump him like trash?"
Morbius' fingers hovered over the wound, his pulse quickening despite himself. It definitely wasn't a frenzied, instinctual kill. This was controlled. Clinical. Someone in Brooklyn was harvesting blood, and doing it with a surgeon's hand, and for once it wasn't him.
Morbius swallowed, the hunger coiling in his gut like a tightening noose. He pushed it down, focused on the matter at hand. "I need to run a full panel on what’s left in his bloodstream." he murmured. "Something tells me this isn't just organ trafficking."
Cavallero sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yeah? And what the hell do you think it is, then?"
Morbius exhaled slowly. "Something worse."
He let the words settle as he reached into his satchel, withdrawing a syringe and a few vials. His hands moved with practiced efficiency. He inserted the needle into the man's arm, drawing what little blood remained. It was thinner than it should be, paler. Something had been introduced to his system before death, something that had altered the blood's composition.
Cavallero watched him work, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. "You know, Nik, most consultants don’t get this hands on."
Morbius didn't look up. "Most consultants don't have a specialty in hematology."
Cavallero snorted. "Fair enough. Just don’t let the higher ups catch you poking around too much. They barely tolerate me asking questions." He took a sip of his coffee, wincing at the bitterness. "You think we should be worried?"
Morbius removed the vial and held it up to the light, watching how the blood clung to the glass. "I think whoever did this is careful. Experienced. And I think if they've done it three times, they’ll do it again."
A beat of silence passed between them. The morgue was always quiet, but now the air felt heavier, like the cold was seeping into the walls. Morbius glanced at Neil with a smile. "But you also don't strike me as the type to hang around Livonia Avenue. Plus, your blood is about 60% caffeine at this point, unless he's opening up a new coffee chain I'd say you're safe."
Cavallero let out a small chuckle, leaning back against a desk. "You want me to send the reports over when I finish up here?"
Morbius nodded, slipping the vials into his coat pocket. "Send me everything you can. And if another body shows up—"
"I'll call you."
The rain was still falling when Morbius stepped back outside, but he barely noticed. His mind was already elsewhere. This wasn't just a murder. This was something else. The precision, the blood extraction, the lack of any real forensic trace, this had purpose behind it. And that meant whoever was responsible wasn't finished.
Morbius adjusted his glasses, blending seamlessly into the night as he walked back into the city. If the killer thought they could drain people dry without consequence, they were wrong.
He would find them.
And if it turned out they were anything like him?
Well.
Then it would be a very different kind of hunt.
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