So there I was, Jace, twenty-three, zero euros, one busted rucksack, standing outside Szimpla-on-the-Danube, the crumbling cousin of the famous ruin bar. The owner, this wrinkled dude named Lazlo, waved a wad of forints like it was a magic wand. “One shift, sunrise to sunrise, triple pay,” he croaked. I should’ve asked why the ad said “no mirrors allowed,” but rent waits for no one.
Inside smelled like spilled pálinka and wet marble. Lazlo handed me a candle instead of a torch, pointed at the taps, then vanished. First customer glided in: pale chick, black hoodie, eyes like spilled ink. She ordered “the usual,” so I poured her a red wine. She sniffed, laughed, and pushed it back. “I meant the OTHER usual, boy.” Her grin had too many teeth. I shrugged, reached for the fridge, and when I turned around she was licking the rim of the glass, tongue scraping the crystal like a cat on tuna. Weird, but Budapest’s weird, right?
By midnight the place was packed, nobody talking above a whisper. They all paid in antique coins that felt cold even after I held them five minutes. Tips were insane though—one guy slipped me a gold Napoleon. I tried to selfie with it, phone screen froze, showed me the room upside-down, everyone floating. I blamed the cheap schnapps and kept pouring.
Then the jukebox started on its own, spinning some 1930s tango. Every soul—if that’s the word—stood up to dance, slow as seaweed. Hoodie girl tugged my sleeve. “Dance so we don’t bite,” she whispered. Look, I’m crap at dancing, but I’m worse at dying, so I waltzed with her between the cobwebbed tables. Her skin felt refrigerated, and every time the song hit a cymbal her heart went thump-thump—once—like it had to remember the beat. She pressed my hand to her chest. “Borrowed,” she sighed. “Owner wants it back at dawn.”
3 a.m., Lazlo reappeared, carrying a silver tray with a single shot glass filled from the tap labeled “House Special.” It wasn’t beer; it was thick, almost black, and the surface pulsed like it knew my name. “Customer wants a volunteer bartender cocktail,” he said. “One sip, debt paid.” My legs turned noodle. Around me, thirty pairs of fangs peeked out, polite but impatient. I remembered every vampire flick: once you drink, you’re franchised. I laughed—yeah, that nervous bark—and told them I was anemic, doctor’s orders, big iron deficiency. They hissed like busted radiators.
Hoodie girl—she said her name was Csilla—stepped between us. “He’s under my tab,” she announced, voice sharp enough to shave. The mob backed off, grumbling. She dragged me to the beer cooler, shoved me inside among the kegs, and slammed the door. Total dark, minus the red exit sign glowing like a cigarette. “Stay till the church bells,” she said through the metal. “They can’t enter cold storage; old curse.” Great, I’m hiding in a fridge from undead hipsters.
Freezing my butt off, I patted the walls and found an old maintenance hatch. Crawling through, I tumbled into the cellar—stone tunnels older than the city, chalked with sun symbols and dried garlic that’d turned to dust. In the corner lay a backpack, not mine, but same brand. Inside: a passport stamped 1987, a mixtape, and a Polaroid of a guy who looked exactly like me minus the beard. On the back: “Tell Mom I tried. —J” My knees went fizzy. Was this alternate me? Or future me? Or past me on loop? I pocketed the mixtape like a clue and legged it.
Tunnel spat me out by the river, sky bruising toward dawn. Csilla waited on the pier, hoodie flapping like a torn sail. She looked almost alive in that light. “You kept the heart beating,” she said, pointing at my chest. “I need one more hour, then I’m free.” She explained: every century a vampire can trade places with a mortal heartbeat, walk away human at sunrise, provided the mortal stays in the bar till the bells. Sounded like Airbnb from hell. She’d been queueing since 1923.
I felt the gold Napoleon in my pocket melt-hot. Choices: run, and she drags me back as replacement, or help and maybe keep my pulse. I asked what “help” meant. She pulled a silver needle from her boot. “Pierce the tap, drain the House Special before Lazlo serves it. Without the toast, the contract breaks.” Basically, sabotage the keg, save my neck. I’m no hero, but I’m also not keg filler.
We sneaked back through the delivery hatch. Bar looked asleep, patrons slumped like discarded coats. Lazlo snored on a throne of bar stools, the evil keg gleaming beside him. Csilla handed me the needle. “Aim for the crest, heart-high.” I crawled, army style, floor sticky with centuries of spilled booze. Halfway there, my phone rang—buddy back home, face-timing. Screen lit me up like a disco ball. Lazlo’s eyes snapped open, red as traffic. He lunged; I rolled; Csila vaulted the counter, kicking him in the jaw so hard his fangs flew like popcorn.
I stabbed the keg. Black stuff geysered, screaming—actual screaming—steaming on contact with air. Floorboards cracked, neon signs burst, and every vampire clutched their ears as the tango record melted. Dawn bells rang across Buda. Sunlight speared through broken roof tiles. Csilla shoved me outside onto the cobblestones just as the pub imploded behind us, bricks turning to bats that scattered into morning smoke.
She stood in the light, no sizzle, just steam. Her chest rose and fell steady. “Heartbeat’s mine again,” she laughed, tears pink like diluted wine. She kissed my forehead—ice cube then warm—thanked me, and walked off toward the market, shadow normal, sneakers squeaking. I sat there, gold coin fused to my palm, mixtape in my pocket, wondering if I’d wake up in a hostel with the worst hangover in Europe.
That was three months ago. I kept the mixtape, labeled “Side B: Repeat.” Haven’t played it yet; scared I’ll hear my own voice singing. Every time I pass an alley and smell old booze, I check my reflection—still there, still breathing. But some nights, when the city clocks strike five, I feel a phantom fang brushing my neck and I swear I hear kegs rolling in the distance, looking for a new bartender. If you see an ad for triple-pay night shift, read the fine print, mate. And maybe carry a silver needle. Just saying.