To Hunt a Reporter.

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Chapter is 3000 words long.

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Vampire Rule N°20: Blood is Lives

… … … … … … … … … … …

The Gotham Gazette was a far cry from its former glory. Once a beacon of journalistic integrity, the newsroom now felt more like a corporate battlefield, with reporters jockeying for the best stories and editors more concerned with clicks than quality. The constant hum of phones ringing and the clatter of keyboards filled the air, but there was a palpable sense of frustration among those who still cared about real journalism.

Among those dreadfully boring, stale-blooded meatbags, as a certain vampire would call them, was a certain pretty blonde with a quick mind and big dreams.

Dreams her job was shattering with every passing day.

Vicky Vale was still at her desk, buried under a pile of notes, her once neat and tidy workspace now a chaotic mess of papers, coffee cups, and half-eaten sandwiches.

Not the best diet, but the only one that accommodated her work schedule.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair, wondering how her career had come to this. She'd worked her ass off, tried to prove herself time and again, but it seemed the higher-ups were intent on keeping her down. The kind of stories she wanted to tell—the ones that mattered—were being sidelined in favor of fluff pieces and corporate-friendly content.

Vicky had always dreamed of breaking big stories, exposing corruption, and making a real difference in Gotham City. Instead, she was stuck writing about socialites and fashion trends, while the real stories were handed off to the more "cooperative" reporters.

If they could even be called 'real' at this point

She glanced around the room, watching as her colleagues hurriedly typed away. Across the aisle, Steve Dawson, a slick reporter known for his close ties with certain powerful individuals in Gotham, was deep in conversation with their editor-in-chief and old man Gus' own boss, Roger Warren.

Vicky couldn't hear what they were saying, but she didn't need to. It was the same old story: Steve would get the front-page story, and Vicky would be relegated to the lifestyle section.

Vicky let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. Just as she was about to start on her article, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Morning, Vale. You look like you could use a vacation." A sickly sweet, chihuahua-in-a-bag voice violated her ears in a way only that hot piece in Brideshead should.

'Bloody hell, Vicki.' She was horrified by herself at this point, but utter shame and penance could come later, she had other bitches to deal with.

Vicky turned to see Lisa Connors, one of the senior reporters, standing behind her desk with a smirk on her face. Lisa was the kind of woman who had clawed her way to the top, and she wasn't shy about reminding everyone how she got there.

"Morning, Lisa," Vicky replied, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Just trying to get this article done."

"Another gala piece?" Lisa asked, glancing at Vicky's screen. "Yikes. Guess you didn't get the memo about playing the game."

"I'm not interested in playing games, Lisa. I just want to do my job." Vicky resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Whatever," Lisa chuckled and shook her head. "That's your problem, Vicky. You're too idealistic. This isn't about journalism anymore; it's about survival. You want the big stories? You've got to make nice with the right people. Otherwise, you'll be stuck writing about galas for the rest of your career."

The woman reached her hand, with long painted nails that made her look more like an escort than a reporter, and lifted a strand of Vicky's long blond hair.

"You could go really far Vicky, if only you knew how to use all the weapons at your disposal.'

"Thanks for the advice, Lisa." Vicky clenched her jaw, refusing to rise to the bait.

"Anytime," Lisa replied, flashing a fake smile before sauntering off to her desk.

Vicky stared at her screen, the words blurring as her frustration boiled over. She knew Lisa was right—at least partially. The Gazette had changed, and not for the better. But Vicky wasn't willing to compromise her integrity just to get ahead. She wanted to earn her success, not pillow-talk her way into it like some of her colleagues.

As she tried to refocus on her work, Vicky caught a glimpse of the janitor, Marcus, sweeping the floor nearby. Marcus was new, he'd only been working at the Gazette for a few weeks, but he had a friendly demeanor that made him easy to talk to.

That wholesome, salt of the earth grandpa charisma.

He'd struck up a conversation with Vicky a few times while she was staying late, and she found his down-to-earth attitude refreshing compared to the cutthroat environment of the newsroom.

"Hey, Marcus," Vicky called out, more out of a need for a distraction than anything else.

Marcus looked up from his sweeping and gave her a nod. "Morning, Miss Vale. How's it going?"

"Same old, same old. Trying to get this article done, but it's hard to stay motivated when you know no one cares." Vicky shrugged.

"I care. I mean, I don't know much about writing, but I always like reading your stuff. Feels more… real, you know?" Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks, Marcus. That means a lot." Vicky couldn't help but smile.

"No problem," Marcus said, leaning on his broom for a moment. "But, uh, if you don't mind me saying, you look pretty stressed out. Something bothering you?"

Vicky hesitated. She didn't usually vent to people at work—especially not the janitor—but Marcus had a way of putting her at ease.

"It's just… this place," Vicky admitted. "It's not what it used to be. The stories that matter aren't getting told, and the people in charge don't seem to care. It's all about clicks and keeping certain people happy. I feel like I'm wasting my time here."

Marcus nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds rough. But you know, sometimes you've got to fight for what you believe in. Maybe it ain't easy, but if anyone can make a difference, it's you."

"Thanks, Marcus. I needed to hear that." Vicky gave him a grateful look.

It was just words though, and not the kind she could put on a paper to get ahead.

"Anytime, Miss Vale," Marcus said with a smile before getting back to his work.

As Marcus moved on, he made a mental note of everything Vicky had said. His true purpose at the Gazette wasn't to clean floors—it was to gather information. And what he'd just learned was exactly what his employer, John Harker, needed to know.

. . .

Later that evening, Marcus arrived at John Harker's apartment in Gotham Heights. The place was a culture shock for those who came from the grimy streets of Brideshead. It was tastefully furnished, with an air of understated elegance that spoke to John's growing wealth and influence.

The young man could be a millionaire if he didn't give so much money away.

Marcus, now back to his real name, Marlon, had been one of John's most loyal followers since the night John saved him from a brutal beating in an alley. He'd been an addict, a nobody, but John had seen something in him, something worth saving. Now, Marlon was clean, focused, and determined to repay the man who'd given him a second chance.

He knocked on the door and was promptly let in by Reginald, John's newly appointed retainer. Reginald, now wearing a tailored suit that made him look more like a businessman than the ex-junkie he once was, led Marlon into the living room where John was waiting.

John sat in an armchair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as ever. He gestured for Marlon to sit.

"Marlon," John said with a slight smile. "What do you have for me?"

Marlon took a deep breath before he began. "It's like you thought, boss. The Gazette is a mess. Most of the reporters are just in it for the numbers, and the higher-ups are keeping the real stories under wraps. Vicki Vale… she's different, though. She's frustrated, angry even. She wants to make a difference, but they're holding her back. One of the other reporters, Lisa Connors, basically told her that if she doesn't put out, she'll be stuck writing fluff pieces forever."

"Oh," John's smile widened, but there was none of the warmth and charm, it was an ugly, angry smile if Marlon had ever seen one, "And what did she say to that?"

"She didn't like it, not one bit," Marlon replied quickly, "But here's the kicker. One of the editors, Roger Warren, also implied that if she was more 'affectionate' with the right people, she might get better assignments. She wasn't having any of it, but you could tell it got under her skin."

"Did you happen to catch how she reacted to that?" With every word he spoke, John was getting more pissed.

"She was disgusted," Marlon said. "But also… I don't know, maybe a little desperate? Like she's trying to figure out what to do next."

"Good work, Marlon. This could be just the opportunity we need." John leaned back in his chair, thinking.

Reginald, who had been standing quietly by the door, stepped forward.

"Shall I prepare the next steps, boss?" He asked.

"Please do." John confirmed, "And see what you can find about this Roger Warren and Lisa Connors."

Vampires don't like it when people try to fuck their sandwiches.

…

The next few days at the Gazette were a blur of frustration for Vicki. Just as John had planned, she was assigned one meaningless story after another. A profile on a local bakery, a piece about a charity auction—nothing that even came close to real journalism. Each time she pitched a story with substance, it was shot down without explanation.

The final straw came on Friday afternoon. Vicki had spent hours researching a potential corruption scandal involving a third-rate Gotham politician.

She had the sources, the documents, everything she needed to break the story wide open. But when she presented it to Roger Warren, he didn't even bother to look at her notes.

"Vicky, we're not running with this," Roger said dismissively.

"What?" Vicki stared at him in disbelief. "Why not? This is a huge story, Roger. It could blow the lid off corruption in Gotham!"

"No need to go hysterical," Roger leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed. "It's not the right fit for us. Besides, we've got more important things to cover. The mayor's office is hosting a charity gala next week—I want you on that."

Hysterical? She'll show him hysterical if he continues running his fat-ass mouth.

Now if her mother heard her thought, she would spent the next hour with soap in her mouth, but she was too angry to care at this point.

"Another gala? Roger, this is insane! We're supposed to be a newspaper, not a PR firm for the city's elite!" She bit out, trying to repress the anger and frustration.

She wasn't too good at it, unfortunately.

Roger's expression hardened. "You're out of line, Vicki. This is the kind of attitude that's holding you back. Now, unless you want to spend the rest of your career writing obituaries, I suggest you drop this and do your fucking job."

Vicki's hands clenched into fists.

She wanted to scream, to throw something, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. With a final glare at Roger, she stormed out of his office and headed straight for the elevator. She needed to get out of there before she said something she'd regret.

Or worse, something she wouldn't regret.

As she reached the ground floor, Vicky stepped out of the elevator and nearly ran into Marlon, who was pushing a cart of cleaning supplies.

"Whoa, sorry, Miss Vale," Marlon said, stepping back.

"It's not your fault, Marcus. I just… I can't take it anymore. This place is driving me insane." Vicky shook her head, trying to calm down.

"That bad, huh? Want to talk about it?" Marlon frowned, concerned.

Vicky hesitated, but then sighed. "It's just… they don't care about the real stories, Marcus. They only care about what's easy, what's safe. I have a story that could actually make a difference, and they won't even consider it. I'm starting to wonder if I'm wasting my time here."

The janitor paused, looking thoughtful. "Seems like a waste of talent, if you ask me. I've read your stuff. Got a good eye for the truth."

Vicky chuckled dryly. "You're probably one of the few who think so. They've got me on stories that are as interesting as watching paint dry."

"Ever think about... finding other ways to get your stories out?" the janitor asked, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp.

Vicky raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Just saying," he shrugged, "Gotham's a big city. Lots of people interested in the truth. Sometimes you gotta go outside the lines to get things done."

She studied him for a moment, something about the way he spoke was... different. But before she could ask more, he simply nodded and went back to his work, leaving her to ponder his words.

Later that night, as Vicky finally gathered her things to leave, she couldn't shake the conversation from her mind. She had no idea why, but something about it felt... significant.

When she stepped out of the building, she was surprised to see a familiar figure leaning against a sleek black car parked near the entrance. It was the same young man she'd met in Brideshead—the one with the striking blue eyes and an air of mystery about him.

The one that helped both rise and lower her stress-levels in the last few days, for better or worse.

"John?" she said, her voice tinged with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Just happened to be in the area. Thought I'd check in on you. Late night?" John smiled, his presence as calm and composed as ever.

It was the worst excuse in the history of excuses, but she didn't care, sue her?

Would any man complain if a tall, hot as heck chick that slightly scaroused him showed up right after you had a very bad day at work?

"You could say that. The Gazette isn't exactly the friendliest place for someone trying to make a difference." Vicky chuckled, playing it cool, and closing the door behind her.

No way in hell is she letting her coworkers see him, that butt had her name written on it.

"Mind if I walk with you for a bit?" He said, not quite shyly but not in his usual confident tone, just reserved enough to give her the urge to squeal.

"Sure, I could use the company." She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not it was socially acceptable to do a victory dance in public, then nodded.

It wasn't acceptable, unfortunately.

As they strolled down the well lit streets, Vicky couldn't help but notice how the shadows seemed to cling to him, making him blend into the night. There was something otherworldly about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Is this about that piece you're working on in Brideshead?" he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity.

Vicky sighed, work had to spoil everything, even a walk can't be had in peace.

"Sort of. It's hard to get anything done when your bosses are more interested in keeping their friends happy than letting you do real journalism. I've been thinking... maybe I need to start looking for outside resources, you know? Get the stories out there some other way." She said, one sentence turning into two until she could put feelings into words.

John's smile widened, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. "I might be able to help with that. I have... connections. People who might be interested in what you have to say. I could call in a few favors."

Vicky stopped, turning to face him.

"Why? What's your angle, John Harker?" She asked only half-teasing, this was Gotham after all, and she might not be some Brideshead or Park Row chick but she knew better than to take candy from a stranger.

No matter how attractive the stranger was.

"I want people to remember that places like Brideshead and Park Row exist. That they've been abandoned, left to rot while the rest of the city thrives. Maybe it's a bit idealistic, but I think you could shine a light on that. Remind Gotham of the people it's forgotten." He met her gaze, his expression sincere.

She studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. But all she saw was someone who, like her, wanted to make a difference. Or at least, that's what she told herself.

"Okay, I'll bite. But if this turns out to be some kind of trick…" Finally, she nodded.

"No tricks, I promise. Just... doing what I can." John laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to cut through the tension.

As they continued walking, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—her work, his business ventures, the absurdity of Gotham's nightlife. They bantered back and forth, the initial tension easing as they found a rhythm.

When they reached the corner where they'd have to part ways, Vicki hesitated. She wasn't sure what compelled her, but before she could overthink it, she blurted out, "You know, we should grab a coffee sometime."

John raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, she seemed to have that effect on him...was it a good or a bad thing. She honestly couldn't tell, didn't care either as long as he kept looking at her like this...

"Coffee? With you? I'd love that." He said with a grin, the kind of grin that implied he knew exactly what she was thinking and was very smug about it.

"Great. I'll, uh, see you around then." She smiled, relieved he hadn't made it awkward.

As he turned to leave, she was grateful he didn't see the faint blush on her cheeks. She watched him disappear into the night, wondering what she'd just gotten herself into. But for the first time in a while, she felt a spark of excitement.

The night had been more productive than John had anticipated. As he walked away from Vicki, a small smile played on his lips. Things were falling into place nicely. The next steps would require precision and patience, but he was confident in his ability to handle it.

He had to, the rewards were too good to pass up after all.

That, and spending some time around Vicki Vale wasn't that unpleasent.

For now, though, he could relish the thrill of the hunt.