My Blood Isn’t for Sale, Boss

Last year, my 400ml donation of O-negative blood saved my boss’s only son.

By the hospital bed, Mrs. Thompson didn’t even glance up.

“Consider yourself honored to have saved my son.”

The entire family crowded around the boy, celebrating. Meanwhile, I collapsed in the hallway from anemia—yet not a single word of concern came my way.

A year later, in the dead of night, my phone lit up with 78 missed calls.

My boss’s voice boomed in the voicemail: “Liam needs blood urgently! You’re the only one who can save him!”

I pressed the record button, then slowly replied:

“Last time, I was a fool. This time? I’m not saving a jerk’s son.”

My phone buzzed like crazy on the table.

Seventy-eight missed calls—all from my boss.

I stared at the name, my stomach twisting into knots.

It was 3 a.m.

I picked up my phone and tapped the latest voicemail.

Mr. Thompson’s voice exploded through the speaker.

“Why the hell aren’t you answering?!”

“My son’s in crisis again!”

“It’s cute hemolysis! The hospital says only you can save him!”

“Get over here right now!”

I listened, stone-faced.

My finger slid to the top of the screen and hit record.

Memories from last year flashed through my mind, one after another.

At the hospital, the sharp smell of antiseptic hung in the air.

I lay in the donor chair as they drew blood from my arm.

A full 400 milliliters.

The nurse said, “Your blood type is extremely rare—O-negative.”

I nodded.

She added, “You’re saving a child’s life. That’s a true blessing.”

I didn’t say anything.

Then the blood bag was wheeled away, and the nurse helped me to a recovery area, pressing a cup of sweetened water into my hand.

Dizzy and lightheaded, I staggered toward the VIP ward, clinging to the wall for support.

Mr. Thompson’s son was in that VIP room.

The door stood ajar. Through the gap, I could see them all: Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, both sets of grandparents, clustered around the bed.

A pale little boy lay there, my blood flowing into his veins through the IV line.

Mrs. Thompson wiped away tears, and Mr. Thompson patted her back.

They murmured, “It’s okay now. He’s going to pull through.”

The room buzzed with the giddy relief of a crisis averted.

No one looked towards the door, no one noticed me.

I slid down the wall, too faint to stand, my throat tight with unspeakable words.

Through the door crack, Mrs. Thompson’s voice drifted clearly:

“Did you take care of that donor?”

“Yeah, I gave her some cash. She’s gone.”

“Good. Keep her away from us. She’s just an employee—expendable.”

“Our son’s life is what matters.”

The hallway spun, a high-pitched ring in my ears.

I crumpled to the cold tile floor. As my vision faded, I watched the ward door click shut, sealing in their laughter.

Mr. Thompson was still screaming through the phone: “What, are you dead? Answer me now!”

I took a deep breath, then slowly replied:

“Last time, I was a fool. This time? I’m not saving a single soul.”