The girl stood by the cracked window of an abandoned cottage, her bare feet brushing against the cold, dirt-coated floor.
Her white dress clung to her body as if afraid to let go. She wasn't herself. That much was clear.
A quiet breath of wind stirred the air—and with it came him.
He didn't knock. He never did.
Instead, his voice sliced the silence like a blade.
> "Come out."
His tone was calm, but each syllable hummed with restrained power.
The girl turned slowly. Pale skin, eyes too wide. Her lips curled into a smile that didn't belong to her.
> "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, tilting her head innocently.
He took a step forward, slow and deliberate, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.
> "Don't waste my time," he said. "I know you're inside this girl. Release her."
The girl blinked once. Twice. Then laughed, softly at first, then with rising amusement.
> "You're mistaken," she whispered. "I'm just a girl standing in an old house. You should go."
> "Don't play dumb," he growled. "I can smell death in this room. It clings to you."
Her laughter stopped.
> "So what if I am?" she murmured, voice suddenly lower, layered—two voices in one. "I won't leave. Not yet."
He narrowed his eyes.
> "Stop hurting the innocent. You're supposed to cross over. What's keeping you?"
A flicker of something behind those borrowed eyes—pain, or hatred, or both.
> "I need my revenge," she muttered. "I won't rest until I get what they owe me."
He looked at her, long and hard. Then said,
> "You're not human anymore. You're just a little ghost clinging to a corpse."
Her smile twisted.
> "I'm stronger than you think."
He moved.
In one flash of motion, he was in front of her, hand snapping to her chest, fingertips pressing over her collarbone—searching for the echo of the soul within.
She shrieked.
A wave of force burst from her, slamming into him. His body flew backward, striking the wall. Dust rained down, but he stood again, slowly brushing his coat.
> "This is all you've got?" he said, voice steady, eyes beginning to glow. His lips curled, revealing the sharp glint of fangs.
Her borrowed face paled.
> "You..." she gasped, backing away. "You're not human."
> "Neither are you."
> "What... what are you?" she hissed.
> "Something older than your hate," he said, his voice low now. "And more dangerous if I choose to be."
He stepped forward again. The girl trembled.
He didn't want to hurt her, but he would—if he had to.
> "Let the girl go," he warned. "Before I make you."
She didn't move. Didn't answer.
Only stared—and behind her gaze, the ghost clung tighter.
The girl's hand lifted, but it wasn't hers—it moved too smoothly, too confidently. The air crackled around her fingers.
> "If you think I'll just roll over," she said, voice warping, "you've chosen the wrong ghost."
A blast of invisible force surged from her palm.
He dodged with ease. The wall behind him cracked from the impact.
He didn't look impressed.
She launched another strike. This time, she aimed for his chest.
He caught it—caught the surge of spirit energy like it was nothing more than a flicker of candlelight. His hand closed around it, absorbing the impact as if swallowing fire.
Her eyes widened.
> "That's not possible," she whispered.
He stepped forward.
> "You're not the only one who's been broken."
She screamed, twisting the girl's body unnaturally. Her mouth opened wide, and a shriek rang out—high-pitched, soul-deep, meant to paralyze.
He flinched—but didn't stop.
In a blink, he was before her again. One hand gripped her throat—not harshly, but with absolute control. The girl's feet hovered inches off the ground.
> "Enough," he said coldly.
She thrashed. The borrowed body trembled. Cracks began to show—bruises, blood from the girl's nose. The ghost pushed harder, trying to fight, but he didn't loosen his grip.
> "You're hurting her," he growled. "Let her go."
> "She's just a vessel—"
> "She's human. That still means something."
He shoved her against the wall—this time with enough force to leave a dent. Her illusion wavered. For a second, her true form shimmered—wispy, pale, flickering like dying flame.
Her voice trembled.
> "Why do you care?" she rasped. "She's nothing to you."
> "Because I don't feed off the weak," he said.
She tried to phase out—to vanish—but he was faster. His palm burned with red light as he pressed it to her forehead. The energy sizzled.
She screamed—this time in pain.
He murmured something ancient, a language long dead. Her borrowed body collapsed into his arms.
> "Sleep," he said.
And everything went dark.