Page 11 of Wraith

The girlfriend reached out, brushing a hand over his arm. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” she said softly. “Everything okay?”

My heart leapt at the question, foolish hope clawing its way to the surface. Maybe this was it. Maybe he’d say something—anything—that hinted at remorse, at regret. Maybe he did feel something, even if he hid it well.

But he just smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m fine,” he said easily. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

The air left my lungs in a rush. Lucky. He was lucky.

I stumbled back, my ghostly steps silent against the pristine hardwood. The warmth of the apartment, the love that filled the air—it was unbearable. My chest felt tight, the invisible weight pressing down harder with every second I stood there.

She giggled, a light, carefree sound that echoed like a taunt in my ears. Lucian grinned, tipping his glass toward her in a mock toast. “To us,” he said, his voice rich with affection.

I turned away, my hands shaking as I clenched them into fists. I couldn’t watch anymore. I couldn’t stand here and see the life I’d been denied, the happiness he so easily gave to someone else.

The bonds tugged at me again, pulling me back toward the theater, but I resisted. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to go back to the cold, to the sight of my own decaying body lying forgotten on that stage.

Instead, I drifted to the window, looking out at the city bathed in the golden glow of sunset. Cars honked in the distance and chatter floated up from the streets below. Life went on. People went on.

But not me.

I was trapped here, chained to bonds that didn’t want me, to a world that didn’t miss me. And as I watched Lucian kiss her, I realized something that made my chest ache with the force of it.

They were happier without me.

And maybe... maybe I did deserve this after all.

Seven

The theater had changed.

It wasn’t just the stale air thickened with decay or the groans of its aging bones.

I hovered near the rafters, avoiding the stage entirely. I couldn’t bear to see it again. Not my body, not the bloated, grotesque shell I had become. And now, it wasn’t just me here.

Voices rose from the stage below, low murmurs cutting through the suffocating stillness. The faint glow of flashlights bobbed across the wooden floor, sweeping over the seats and walls before landing on the stage.

“Smell’s worse than I expected,” a man said, his voice muffled behind what sounded like a mask.

Campus security. Their uniforms marked them as much as their awkward hesitance. They weren’t used to this.

Another voice joined in, sharper, more authoritative. “Stay back. Let the police handle this.”

Two officers stood near the stage, their presence commanding even as their expressions betrayed discomfort.One crouched by my body, his gloved hand hovering over the gash at the back of my skull. The other stood rigidly nearby, his flashlight trained on the scene.

“Fell from the stage?” one of the officers muttered, his tone half question, half confirmation. “That’s my guess. Blunt force trauma to the head, no signs of foul play.”

“That’s your official call?” the security guard asked, shifting uncomfortably.

“It’s preliminary,” the officer replied, standing. “We’ll wait for the medical examiner, but I don’t see anything suspicious.”

I floated closer, the detachment I’d tried to cling to crumbling with every word.

No signs of foul play. No suspicion.

They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t see how Thorne had grabbed me, that not a single one of my five mates reached out to grab me in time, how all of them turned their backs and walked away while I bled out on the stage.

They would never know.

“Another student?” one of the guards asked hesitantly.

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