Ren didn't eat his pizza. He didn't drink his milk. He spent the rest of the lunch period staring at the grain of the table, trying to stop his right hand from trembling.
Every time he looked up, he saw them.
Not just the Smoke Monkey on the sophomore. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw the others.
A grey, weeping woman standing behind the lunch lady, whispering into her ear. A small, charred child sitting under the vending machine, gnawing on a discarded wrapper.
The cafeteria wasn't just a place for food. It was a feeding trough for the dead.
"Bell," Jian said, checking his phone. "Let's go."
"I can't move," Ren whispered. "My legs are jelly."
"Move them anyway," Jian said, standing up and shouldering his backpack. "The monkey is looking at you again. If we stay here, it's going to follow you home. And trust me, you do not want a low-level parasite in your bedroom. They snore."
Ren swallowed hard, grabbed his bag, and forced himself to stand.
"Don't run," Jian murmured, walking beside him. "Walk like you're bored. Ghosts are like predators. They chase things that run."
They walked out of the cafeteria, into the crowded hallway. Ren felt eyes on him—hundreds of cold, dead eyes—but he kept his gaze on Jian's uncombed hair.
Jian led him up the stairs, past the science labs, all the way to the heavy metal door at the end of the East Wing.
"The roof?" Ren hissed. "That's locked."
Jian fished a paperclip out of his pocket. He jammed it into the lock, jiggled it twice, and kicked the bottom of the door.
Click.
"The janitor owes me money," Jian explained, pushing the door open.
The roof was windy, grey, and thankfully, empty of ghosts. The roar of the city traffic below drowned out the thumping heartbeats in Ren's ears.
Ren collapsed against the ventilation unit, sliding down until he hit the gravel. He put his head between his knees.
"Okay," Ren gasped. "Okay. Talk. Now."
Jian leaned against the parapet, opening a pack of gummy bears he had stolen from somewhere. He popped a red one into his mouth.
"Talk about what?"
"About that!" Ren waved a hand toward the door. "About the zombies. About the monkey. About the fact that you, Jian 'I-Failed-Gym-Class' Xu, apparently know how to pick locks and identify demons!"
Jian chewed thoughtfully. "It wasn't a demon. Demons are Class A. That was a bottom-feeder. Class F."
"Stop using classes! What are you?"
Jian sighed. He offered the bag of gummies to Ren. Ren slapped it away.
"Fine. No gummies for you," Jian said, pocketing the bag. He looked Ren in the eye, his expression shifting from lazy to resigned. "My family... we're in the logistics business."
"Logistics?"
"Soul Logistics," Jian corrected. "My official title is 'Junior Assistant Custodian.' Basically, I'm a janitor for the Underworld. When people die and get lost, or when spirits linger where they shouldn't, my family files the paperwork to move them along."
Ren stared at him. "You're the Grim Reaper?"
"God, no," Jian laughed. "Reapers are the SWAT team. They carry scythes and wear cool cloaks. I carry a clipboard and a spray bottle of salt water. I'm lower middle management at best."
Ren rubbed his temples. The absurdity of it was almost calming. "So you fight them?"
"Hell no. I told you, I'm a Custodian. If I see a dangerous spirit, I call a Reaper. I don't fight." Jian's smile faded. "Which brings us to you."
Jian stepped closer, his sneakers crunching on the gravel. He looked down at Ren, his dark eyes serious.
"Ren, what did you do last night?"
"I told you. I opened a crate."
"And?"
"And I touched a coffin."
Jian cursed softly. He crouched down. "A coffin? Like, an old coffin?"
"Qin Dynasty, I think. Maybe older."
Jian looked pale. "Okay. That explains the smell."
"You keep saying I smell."
"You do," Jian said bluntly. "You smell like Death. Not fresh death. Ancient death. Like you've been marinating in a tomb for two thousand years."
Jian pointed at the door they had just come through.
"That Smoke Monkey downstairs? It didn't look at you because you're tasty. It looked at you because you smell like a King."
Ren felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. "A King?"
"Spirits are drawn to power," Jian whispered. "You are radiating so much negative energy right now that every ghost within a five-mile radius thinks you're their new boss. Or their lunch. I can't tell which yet."
Ren looked at his hands. The memory of the claw-shape surfaced again. Zhao Huan.
"How do I stop it?" Ren asked. "How do I turn it off?"
"You can't," Jian said. "Not yet. You're a lighthouse in a dark ocean, Ren. And the sharks are starting to circle."
Creak.
The heavy metal door to the roof groaned.
Ren and Jian both froze.
They watched the handle. It was turning slowly.
Rattle. Rattle.
"Did you lock it?" Ren whispered.
"No," Jian whispered back. "I picked it."
The door swung open.
It wasn't a student. It wasn't a teacher.
Standing in the doorway was the sophomore boy from the cafeteria. His eyes were rolled back in his head, showing only the whites. He was drooling slightly.
And on his back, the Smoke Monkey had grown.
It was no longer small. It was the size of a gorilla, its black, oily bulk crushing the boy down. It filled the entire doorway.
It turned its white, burning sockets toward Ren.
It didn't hiss this time. It smiled—a jagged tear in the smoke filled with too many teeth.
Jian stood up slowly, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out... a spray bottle. A cheap, plastic spray bottle.
"Stay behind me," Jian said, his voice trembling slightly. "I think I'm gonna need more salt."