Bleeding Red in a Blue Blood World

The frantic clacking of keyboards across the openplan office stopped dead.

Dozens of coworkers snapped their heads around, fixing their dead eyes on me like I was some kind of diseased freak. All because I dared to argue. I said human blood was red.

The corporate trainer at the front of the room had just hammered home his point, stating as absolute fact that human blood was blue. I yanked out my phone.

My chest tightened as my thumb swiped frantically through the search results. Blue. Every single link. Blue. I bolted for the restroom. Panic clawed at my throat.

My hands shook as I dug a safety pin from my purse and jammed the needle straight into my index finger. A glaring drop of crimson welled up from the skin.

A sudden, wet hacking sound echoed from the sinks outside. I held my breath. I pressed my eye to the narrow crack of the bathroom stall.

A coworker stood in front of the mirrors, wiping a thick smear of neon blue blood from the corner of her mouth.

Chapter 1 That was the first time I actually saw blue blood spill from a human body. My hands flew up, clamping over my mouth to smother my own gasp. I didn't dare make a sound.

They weren't wrong. I wasn't wrong either. So what the hell was broken? I stayed pressed against the stall door long after the restroom emptied out.

Only when the dead silence stretched on did I finally slip out. Walking back through the office, my skin crawled. Everything looked exactly the same, yet horrifyingly wrong.

The realization slammed into me. I wasn't like them. I was the freak here.

The second I dropped back at my desk, my direct supervisor, Pierce—a department manager who constantly reeked of cheap cologne—summoned me into his glasswalled office. "Heard you haven't been sleeping well," he said. "Stress getting to you?" I knew exactly what he was fishing for.

My fingernails dug into my palms. I wasn't going to hand him the truth. Every instinct screamed at me that outing myself as the odd one out was a massive red flag.

I forced a tight smile and brushed it off. I lied through my teeth, claiming my outburst was just a twisted joke that everyone took way too seriously. Pierce didn't push.

He just gave a hollow chuckle and told me to get some rest. That night, I deadbolted every single door and window in my apartment.

I yanked the blackout curtains shut, chugged a massive glass of cheap red wine, and lay in bed fully clothed, my knuckles white around a canister of pepper spray.

I prayed to God it was just a hallucination. A stressinduced nightmare. I desperately hoped I'd wake up tomorrow and the world would snap back to normal.

But by 3:00 AM, my eyes were still wide open in the dark. My mind was razorsharp. I wasn't crazy. So what the hell was actually happening?

I dragged myself out of bed and flipped open my laptop. I typed in the same search about human blood. The results hadn't budged. No. It was worse than that. I found something else.

Chapter 2 The Wikipedia page for the Statue of Liberty actually said: A landmark in California, built to commemorate the birth of Hollywood.

I searched for Wall Street, and the images showed three bizarre, alienlooking structures I'd never seen before, labeled "The Financial Trinity." I searched for the Mississippi River.

The results blared that it was a manmade canal cutting straight through the center of Manhattan. I slammed my laptop shut. My chest heaved as I fought for air.

This was absolute insanity. But it cemented one terrifying fact. This world was definitely, undeniably, not mine. I kept my mouth shut.

Because the second I posted a thread questioning reality on Reddit, two comments instantly popped up. [ OP needs a psych eval. ] [ Did OP escape from a psych ward or something? ] That second comment felt like a bucket of ice water.

Not belonging here wasn't just some mindbending glitch. Exposing myself would put a massive target on my back. I nuked the post immediately.

From then on, I went into full camouflage mode. I forced myself to blend in, to act perfectly "normal." I kept my eyes peeled, tracking every detail of this twisted reality.

Thankfully, aside from basic facts being warped, nothing seemed to directly threaten my daytoday survival. The tension in my shoulders dropped a fraction.

Maybe I was just being paranoid. But three days later, the corporate firstaid trainer returned. He slapped a pop quiz on everyone's desk, ordering strict silence.

He claimed it was a standard evaluation. I didn't think much of it until Nadine muttered under her breath. "Been doing this for years.

They've never tested us before." A cold sweat slicked my spine. Was this a trap? I shot a covert glance at the desk next to mine. Ice flooded my veins.

Her test was full of standard CPR questions. My paper? [ Question one: What color is human blood? ] [ Question two: What color is a baby's hair at birth? ] They were hunting me.

Every alarm bell in my head screamed that I was dead meat if I messed this up. I locked down the tremor in my hands. I gripped the pen and coldly wrote my answers. Blue. White.

When I handed the paper in, the trainer locked eyes with me. A heavy, loaded stare. He didn't say a single word. I had no idea if I'd passed their twisted test.

But the message was loud and clear. From now on, I was walking on a razor's edge. The next day at lunch, I hit up a new bistro down the block with a few coworkers.

My radar was completely fried. I was hypervigilant, tracking every movement in the room.

That's how I instantly clocked the guy in the gray bomber jacket sitting solo at the booth diagonally behind us. My stomach dropped.

I'd seen that exact same jacket on the subway this morning. He had a full plate of food sitting untouched in front of him. His eyes were glued to his phone.

I angled my phone screen, using the dark reflection as a mirror while pretending to check my makeup. In under sixty seconds, he looked up three times.

Every single time, his eyes casually dragged right across my table. My pulse hammered against my ribs. I had a tail. I kept my expression deadpan.

I chewed my food, laughed at a coworker's joke, and played the oblivious office drone.

Back at work, I manufactured excuses to hit the lobby convenience store three separate times that afternoon.

Like clockwork, he was "coincidentally" lingering around every single time. Chapter 3 Standing outside the office building after work, I hesitated.

Do I just hail a cab, go home, and hide under the covers? Do I stick to my usual route and let Bomber Jacket "coincidentally" tag along?

Or do I march right up to him and demand to know what his problem is? I was terrified, sure. But more than that, I needed to know what the hell was going on. So, I made a call.

I ditched my normal commute. Instead of the main avenues, I detoured into the gritty alleys near my old apartment.

After cutting across three consecutive street corners, I shoved open the door to a corner coffee shop.

I ordered an iced Americano, grabbed a high stool right against the floortoceiling window, and practically straddled it.

I locked my eyes on the street outside, my glare cold and aggressive. The road past this shop was a dead end. The only person living down there was my old landlord.

All I had to do was wait for Bomber Jacket to realize his mistake and turn around. Then, I'd confront him.

He could spin whatever bullshit he wanted, but he wouldn't be able to talk his way out of stalking me into a blind alley.

Up to this point, neither the firstaid trainer nor this guy had made a direct move. That meant they didn't want to hurt me. Not yet, anyway. That was my only leverage.

But after Bomber Jacket walked past the window, minutes bled into an hour. He never came back. The sky bruised into a dark purple.

I stepped out of the cafe, my brow furrowing as I stared down the right side of the street. The dead end was dead silent.

The streetlights flickered on, casting a harsh yellow glare against the cracked brick walls and the empty pavement. He was gone. Like he had literally vanished into thin air.

A cold shudder ripped through my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. I speedwalked the entire way home and threw the deadbolts on every door and window.

After downing a whole bottle of ice water to force my heart rate down, I slammed a notebook onto my desk, grabbed a pen, and started writing. [ 1. This world is not my world. ] [ 2.

Someone is watching me because I noticed the glitches. ] [ 3.

These people, and whoever they work for, are extremely dangerous. ] [ So, what the hell do they want? ] I chewed on the cap of my pen, ripping the logic apart.

Did they want to prove I wasn't from here? No. They wouldn't need to jump through all these hoops for that. My blood is red.

With whatever resources they had, getting a blood sample would be child's play. The trainer's heavy stare flashed in my mind.

I gripped the pen harder, the plastic digging into my fingers, and aggressively scrawled the next line: [ They want to know if I know this world is wrong. ] Exactly.

Everything they were doing was a test. A calculated observation based on my reactions. If I kept my head down and played dumb, maybe they'd leave me alone.

But if I showed them I was digging for the truth? I'd be a liability. I took a slow, jagged breath. The real question was staring me right in the face.

The one I'd been dodging for days. Do I just swallow the pill? Do I assimilate, live like a local in this twisted reality, and pretend everything is fine?

Or do I rip this whole thing apart at the seams, find the source of the glitch, and fight my way back home, no matter the cost? I didn't dare write it down. I didn't need to.

The plastic pen casing cracked under my grip. I already knew my answer.

Chapter 4 I set up an encrypted burner account on the biggest anonymous conspiracy forum in the US and dropped a thread: [ Horrible memory.

What do you do when you keep remembering famous landmarks in the wrong cities? ] I didn't dare call out the glitches directly.

And I definitely couldn't touch the radioactive topic of blue blood. I had to keep it vague.

If anyone else out there was trapped in this nightmare, I needed them to read between the lines. Twentyfour hours later, I got three replies. All garbage.

So, I updated the original post: [ Like the Statue of Liberty. I keep forgetting exactly where it is in California.

What gives? ] The next morning, a DM notification flashed on my screen. I swiped open my phone.

On the preview banner, a user named Finn had left a single word: [ New York? ] The breath hitched in my throat. I jammed my thumb onto the notification.

The app loaded a blank screen. The thread was wiped. My account was permanently banned. They'd caught me. A vicious spike of adrenaline flooded my veins.

It was a sick mix of terror and absolute triumph. I had no idea what their next move was, but I knew one thing for a fact. I wasn't alone in this.

I forced my breathing to level out. I had to play it cool. I grabbed my bag and headed to work like nothing happened.

The route to the subway forced me through a narrow, graffitichoked alleyway. The shadows were suffocating. I took one step onto the damp asphalt.

A figure in a dark hoodie lunged out from behind a rusted dumpster and slammed his shoulder brutally into mine. "My bad," he muttered, brushing past me.

I stumbled back, my brow furrowing. Because in that split second before he turned away, I swear I saw the corner of his mouth twitch up into a smirk.

I shook it off and took another step forward. CRACK. The sound ripped through the air directly above my head.

A massive, rusted AC unit plummeted from the sky and slammed into the concrete inches from my toes.

Sharp metal shrapnel and concrete dust exploded outward, grazing the tip of my nose. A highpitched ringing hijacked my ears. My vision tunneled.

Cold, clammy sweat instantly drenched my clothes. My knees buckled, shaking as the unfiltered terror clawed its way up my throat. That was the first time I had ever tasted death.

The cops showed up ten minutes later. They chalked it up to rusted brackets and bad luck.

They told me the apartment above had been sitting empty for months while the owner was overseas. "Someone's watching out for you, sweetheart," a random bystander patted my arm. "You're lucky to be alive." All the blood drained from my face.

My skin felt like ice. I knew exactly why I was still breathing. It was the guy in the hoodie. He bumped me. He threw off my pacing by a single second.

Now I knew exactly what that sick little smirk meant. I finally made it to the office building. Pierce was pacing by the front revolving doors, barking into his cell phone.

He snapped it shut when he saw me.

He took one look at my pale, clammy face and frowned. "What happened to you?" I forced a shaky, plastic smile. "Just a close call on the walk over.

Tripped on the curb, almost got hit by a cyclist. I'm just a little shaken up." His eyes narrowed. "You hurt?" I shook my head. "No.

I'm fine." "Good." Pierce paused, his tongue poking at his cheek like he was chewing on a thought. "Listen, Delaney. Why don't you take the day?

Let me give you a hall pass so you can go get checked out at the hospital." I forced a laugh. "Seriously, I'm okay.

Just don't dock my pay for clocking in late, alright?" Pierce didn't push it. He just waved me through the doors. I collapsed into my desk chair.

It took a solid twenty minutes for the aggressive shaking in my hands to stop. But as the adrenaline faded, a new wave of ice flooded my stomach.

Pierce never actually asked what my "close call" was. So why the hell did he specifically tell me to go to the hospital? Chapter 5 My skin crawled for the rest of the workday.

They knew I was digging. The falling AC unit wasn't an accident; it was a warning shot. And the people hunting me were right here, breathing down my neck.

The second I unlocked my apartment door that night, the hairs on my arms stood up. Someone had been inside.

They were professionals, carefully putting everything back, but when you live alone for years, you memorize the exact angles of your sanctuary.

The wastebasket under my desk—the crumpled piece of paper where I'd mapped out my theories had been smoothed out and read.

It was originally buried in the middle; now, it was shoved to the very bottom. Cold sweat pricked my hairline. Thank God I never wrote down my final conclusion.

If they had seen that I was planning to tear their reality apart, what would they have done? Bagged me on the spot? What was their play now? Giving me a chance to fall in line?

What the hell was I supposed to do? I stared at the ceiling fan all night, my eyes burning. As the first gray light bled through the blinds, my jaw locked. Run.

After shooting Pierce a short, aggressive sickleave email, I instantly booked the earliest oneway ticket to Florida on my phone.

The sun was barely up when I dragged my suitcase out the door. The morning rush hour hadn't hit yet, and I snagged an Uber in minutes.

The driver was a stocky, middleaged guy who didn't say a word. As the car merged onto the airport expressway, the sleepless night crashed down on me. My eyelids felt like lead.

I leaned against the cold glass, biting the inside of my cheek to stay awake. My head bounced off the window. I jerked awake. My eyes snapped to the road signs.

This wasn't the route to the airport. "Hey, did you take a wrong turn?" I forced the violent tremor out of my voice.

The driver's dead eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "GPS took me this way. Probably a detour for construction." I gave a tight nod. My eyes darted to the dashboard.

The phone mounted on the vent was pitch black. The GPS wasn't even on. My stomach plummeted into my shoes.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I glued a blank expression to my face. Demanding he pull over on a deserted stretch of highway was a death sentence.

I had to play this smart. Spotting a gas station sign at the upcoming highway exit, I forced my tone into a harsh, authoritative command. "Pull over at the next exit.

I need to use the restroom." The driver didn't say a word. His heavy boot slammed onto the gas pedal. The engine roared. The Gforce pressed me back into the seat. The mask was off.

I snatched my phone from my pocket. No service. The speedometer needle was climbing fast. In a few miles, we'd hit the city limits.

After that, it was nothing but isolated mountain roads. Bile rose in my throat.

I whiteknuckled the grab handle, my brain cycling frantically through options to crash the car or overpower a man twice my size.

Just as my fingers curled into fists, a sea of red brake lights flared ahead. Traffic was gridlocked from a pileup. The car was forced to crawl.

And right there, flashing red and blue in the morning light—cops. Pure survival instinct took over.

I hammered both fists against the locked window, my breathing loud and ragged, prepared to rip the door handle off. Thank God.

A motorcycle cop spotted my frantic movements, flipped on his sirens, and forced the Uber to the shoulder.

The second the tires stopped rolling, I hit the unlock switch, threw the door open, and stumbled out onto the asphalt. "Officer!" I gasped, my chest heaving. "He—he's trying to kidnap me!" The driver stayed mute.

Even as they cuffed him and shoved him into the back of a cruiser, he just locked his dead eyes on me for one long, chilling second. I missed my flight.

I rode in the back of a squad car to the precinct.

After I recounted every terrifying second of the morning to a female detective, she offered me a sympathetic smile. "Miss, you've had a severe shock.

We've already contacted your family. They're on their way to pick you up." Ice flooded my veins. The styrofoam coffee cup in my hands crumpled under my sudden grip.

Something was horrifyingly wrong. Chapter 6 The precinct waiting room door swung open. Two figures hurried in, their faces pulled tight in mock panic. One was Pierce.

The other was Nadine from HR. "Delaney! Are you okay?" Pierce rushed forward, playing the frantic boss to absolute perfection. "You scared the hell out of us!

When the cops called and said there was an incident…" Nadine threw her arms around me, pulling me into a suffocating hug. "Oh, Delaney. It's over, honey.

We're here." I stared over her shoulder at Pierce.

I couldn't even force the corners of my mouth to twitch into a polite smile. "Pierce, Nadine… how did you…" "We're listed as your emergency contacts on file," Pierce said smoothly. "The forms you filled out on your first day?

Don't tell me you forgot." I didn't forget. I knew for a goddamn fact I never put them down. A cold realization washed over me. I had grossly underestimated them.

Whoever they worked for, their reach went far deeper than a corporate HR department. The cops cleared me to go home. Pierce drove.

For the entire ride, he and Nadine kept up a steady stream of suffocating, fake sympathy.

As we finally pulled into my neighborhood, Pierce dropped the bomb. "You've been so on edge lately, Delaney.

Have you considered… speaking to a professional?" He smoothly launched into a pitch about a highly recommended therapist who could help sort out my "stress." My blood ran cold.

This was the second time he'd pushed a psych eval on me. And both times, it was right after a neardeath accident. "Dr.

Julian is incredible at what he does." Pierce killed the engine in front of my apartment building.

He twisted in his seat, locking eyes with me, his face wearing a mask of utter sincerity. "Sometimes, the things we see… the things we believe to be true, aren't real.

Stress does terrible things to the mind.

It creates illusions." "A doctor can help you separate reality from… imagination." The threat was thinly veiled, but it hit me like a freight train.

The puzzle pieces snapped together. They orchestrated everything the second they caught me digging on that forum. The falling AC unit. The rogue Uber driver.

I wasn't just getting lucky at the last second. They were pulling their punches. They were warning me. Would they miss on purpose a third time?

I sat frozen under their heavy, expectant stares. I forced myself to take a slow, jagged breath. I nodded. "Okay. I'll go see him." The tension in the car instantly evaporated.

Pierce handed me a sleek white business card. Nadine patted my knee, cooing about how I shouldn't worry about my PTO, that she'd handle the paperwork.

I muttered a hollow thanks, grabbed my suitcase, and got out. I stood on the curb, waiting until their taillights vanished around the corner before I looked down at the card. [ Dr.

Julian ] [ Center for Cognitive and Perceptual Disorders ] I knew exactly what this was. It was my final ultimatum.

Check into the clinic, submit to their "treatment," and publicly admit that my reality was just a stressinduced delusion.

Do that, and I get to go back to being a "normal" cog in this twisted machine