Ian’s provocation sparked a fuse, resulting in the ghost’s heightened retaliation. It’d been expected, but Ian wanted her to stop hiding in reflections.

  William’s face had paled, having encountered at least two dozen near-death experiences, oblivious to the cause.

  The scissors, clearly her beloved weapon, and a glass of water toppling onto an electrical circuit. Then, the overheating of a bulbous tool, the old lady called a hair shaper, whatever that meant. Ian didn’t know nor care to.

  He slumped breathlessly in the creaking swivel chair, sweat slicking his skin. However, the successful pale pink hair that completely didn’t suit William, satisfied his throbbing heart.

  It was hideous and perfect.

  Ian’s left hand was imprisoned in an excessively thick wad of bandages, courtesy of Victor, from catching a pair of flying scissors.

  When he shifted by the cluttered stars, three rows of china dolls stared up at him. Large, painted eyes. The moment he neared, they violently rattled, opening and snapping shut.

  One snagged the corner of his pants, tearing it off with a sliver of his skin.

  With blood in their smiles, the baby-like faces grinned happily. Ian only grimaced, eye twitching. Inside were metal containers, hidden beneath a wooden exterior. He could catch the ghost girl’s hollow eyes peeking from inside.

  Then, a polished shoe slammed onto them. It pulverized one of the dolls with a heavy thud.

  Ian paused, squinting at the smiling Esper. Was there leather in there, too?

  Regardless, he dragged himself over to deposit more coins into the old hairdresser’s wrinkled, greedy hands and leaned against the back of William’s chair. He fiddled with the fluffy hair, resembling less of a rat and more of a human-being.

  In the second, he quickly checked William’s energy stability. Calm. For now.

  Then, he met William’s gaze through the dusty mirror. “What do you think?”

  The Esper squirmed, hesitant. “I think… it doesn’t suit me, right? Not really.”

  “Really?” mused Ian lowly, two parts tempted to scream in William’s ear and demand that he remember. That wasn’t the answer he sought. “Pink suits you best.”

  Behind them, Victor waited like a porcelain statue. Pretty, and of absolutely no use. Glancing at Ian, he raised an eyebrow with that faint, subtle smile as if questioning if that was the best Ian could do. Ian took a meditative breath. Inner peace.

  He had none of that. Unfortunately, he also didn’t have the time to commit violence.

  William fiddled with his fingers and the tarantula’s fluffy legs, curled in his palm. “I'm not sure it does."

  Ian's hands gripped the edge of the seat tightly, his knuckles whitening with tension. These ridiculous psychological games. He detested them. He preferred the crude simplicity of bloody battles.

  It allowed him to turn the tide; violence was easier to predict than a person’s thoughts

  As if taunting, the white face flickered in the corner of the reflection. In the cracks, there seemed to be dozens. The ghost girl and her mocking sneer.

  Ian set his jaw. And then, he seized William by the wrist, jerking him toward the exit. He kicked aside another china doll, lugging the Esper forcefully. William attempted to struggle, squirming helplessly as he let out a pained groan. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait… what are you doing?”

  But Ian’s grip was a vice, like an anaconda that had seized its prey.

  He kicked the door open, and the hinges squealed in protest. An engine rumbled down the desolate streets, before a car stopped across them. The storm was advancing, casting gloom across the fake city.

  Out stepped a familiar face: the weak-minded Guide. He hugged his thin body, eyes darting left and right as he staggered. It was pitiful, the way he clutched his sides, like a puppy attempting to curl into itself, and shelter from the impeding rainfall.

  Until his eyes lifted. They locked with Ian’s, brightening immediately. As if he’d seen a savior.

  As if he’d found hope within the darkest days.

  “You’re that Guide, right?” called out the young man, his voice softened by immaturity. It was strained, a wobbling cadence devoid of confidence. “I remember you from… from Underground! I admired you a lot!”

  He stumbled, beaming weakly as the first pelts of rain ushered down.

  And all Ian felt was cold dread, puddling in his stomach and chilling his heart.

  The young man dashed across dampened tar, yellow gumboots splashing into shallow puddles. And within its rippling reflection, a skinny white arm extended from the glossy sheen, fingers curled and ferocious.

  Color leeched from Ian’s face as he dashed down the steps, waving urgently. “Move! Get out of the way, don’t you dare step near those puddles!”

  The young Guide’s eyes fixed on him, darkened by exhausted bags, yet carved of a certain determination. Confusion crossed his face at Ian’s words. His mind, perhaps exceeding Ian’s mental stability, could not react fast enough.

  Time slowed. Perception blurred. Ian had barely made it to the sidewalk when hands snaked around his waist and drew him back.

  “Pity,” murmured Victor by Ian’s ear. “But you won’t make it.”

  And at the plunge of the last syllable, the hands latched onto their victim, bone-like fingers digging into the Guide’s ankles. The roar of an approaching engine surged closer. It would not stop. Things in the illusion followed their routine, and nothing would halt them.

  The Guide thrashed, his face waxen and terrorized as he dropped, clawing at the hands. A broken sob tore from his throat—

  And the sickening crunch of bone and flesh reverberated. The headlights flared, wheels spiraling without stop, like the gears of fate, inevitable. Red splattered against the shadowed streets, and the thin body jerked, skidding sideways with a wet slap.

  A splatter of blood speckled Ian’s frozen face.

  Hands braced his shoulders steadily. Under the raging storm, they brought no warmth to Ian’s palpitating heart. And the voice that followed could only be called cruel, void of empathy.

  “Unfortunately, it takes a little more than will to survive in this world.”

  The car sped off, abandoning the mess of crimson streaking the roads. It was as if it’d merely bumped into a block, far too insignificant to matter. Yet the remaining stain and pitifully curled body remained. Rivulets trickled into the metal drains, streaked with death.

  Behind, William gagged with a wretched cry and hunched over a hedge. But Ian only listened to the rapid strum of his pounding heart, and the lurch of dread twisting his gut.

  He should have slapped Victor’s hands away.

  Instead, he found a morbid comfort in their steadiness, in their apathetic foundation built of such heinous indifference that it was almost enviable.

  Victor cocked his head. “Are you upset, Guide?”

  “Why did you stop me?” asked Ian hoarsely, swallowing.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The Esper hummed, as if considering it solemnly. But Ian knew better than to expect a comforting face when he turned, and so, he didn’t. He stared at the corpse and waited.

  “The setback of William is already a burden. I did not think a second burden was something you desired, and once you realized how useless he was, I am certain you would have abandoned him. Am I incorrect?”

  He wasn’t. And perhaps that was what carved such a hollowness to Ian’s chest. His inability debilitated him, and in the face of death, he would scavenge a path where he alone would live, so long as he could find his eventual vengeance.

  “You could have saved him,” said Ian without thinking, and cursed himself when he did.

  The grey shadowed them in a bleak scenery, as if the clouds had reaped the false city of its vitality. As if the shudder of raindrops parted the veil of happiness.

  “I could have,” agreed Victor, tightening his grip. “But that would have no benefit to me, nor you.”

  A dry laugh escaped Ian, and his eyelashes fluttered. A respite in the darkness when he closed his eyes, unable to twist a certain emotion to his face. “Well, I don’t enjoy watching some bloody spectacle either.”

  Victor hummed again. “You do—only when it is somebody you can justify their misery. You pity that Guide, do you not? Is it because he reminds you of yourself? A reminder that no matter your determination, you are still that weak Guide from the Under—”

  “Shut up.” Ian’s jaw clenched, set in fury.

  Victor released him, sidestepping to block Ian’s view of the streets. Those cold, unsettling eyes beheld him, long fingers brushing beneath Ian’s eye, and smearing the blood with it.

  His smile, as always, came uncanny. “You chose me. The deal is that I aid you, Guide, not adhere to your random acts of kindness, or babysit your morals. And you,” his voice softened, a lull of temptation, mistakenly gentle, “know that my choice was correct.”

  Infuriatingly enough, though Ian wanted to reject the silky coaxing that came like a devil’s whisper, Victor was correct. No matter how cold-blooded he appeared.

  The Guide would not have survived. Determination meant little when they were fated for degradation and dehumanization, forced to claw up with their bare hands, until their flesh bled raw.

  The world commanded misfortune, labeling them as tools.

  And it took much more than a little willpower for a tool to become human.

  Ian drew his breath, catching sight of the pitiful, mangled body by the drains. If he were a better person, he would have buried the young man and wished him well into the next life.

  Instead, his chest heaved, and he met Victor’s gaze again. “Tell me what to do. I know you know.”

  Victor’s eyebrows raised a fraction, and his smile seemed to settle, as if pleased by Ian’s rare obedience. “Haven’t you noticed, Guide? Our ghost wants us to remain here. And thus, in death, we are trapped, and in living, we remain trapped. If we cannot allow this world to kill us, or to live ignorantly—”

  “You’re fucking crazy,” snarled Ian, shaking his head.

  “Do you believe you can continue running with your tail tucked between your legs?” Victor tilted his head, tucking a strand of hair behind Ian’s ear. “I certainly can. But you, Guide, will need to gamble.”

  Once again, Victor was correct. Had the Esper not been inside the old woman’s house, it wouldn’t be certain if the unlucky incidents would have killed them.

  And of course, asking for excessive aid from Victor wasn’t an option.

  Because the Esper wanted to watch him fall.

  Regardless, the man’s peculiar, abnormal brain suggested something that could only be considered foolish. A gamble of life and death. The gales picked up, whipping water against his soaked clothes. It urged a decision when time reaped lives every day.

  William’s memories wouldn’t rouse, and the little ghost’s actions grew graver by the minute. Reflections littered the city, within puddles, windows, and everything.

  Ian’s fingers dug into his palm. Then, fixing his expression into a solemn calm, he stalked over to the corpse and bent down to fold one of the glass shards into his hold. He stared at it.

  And then, in a beat faster than a blink, he swiped it across his throat.

  Immediately, countless hands squeezed out of the shard, bunching skin and flesh with a wet squelch as they attempted to tremble the glass.

  As if they were preventing his actions.

  Ian chucked the shard, with a few fingers wriggling out like thrashing worms, and pivoted. He grabbed the young man who was emptying his insides onto dirt, no doubt providing a toxic fertilization, and jerked his head toward Victor.

  The man, seemingly amused by his actions, glanced at him and then at the large building in the distance. A sleek, white building, built into the storm of clouds. Tall and towering.

  And the university where his younger sister currently studied at.

  His pupils trembled, fingers curling tightly around the phone tucked into his pocket.

  “You’re not funny,” he spat, before yanking William down the streets. As their feet slammed against pavement, every mirror rippled with a smiling, pale face. Hands struggled to crawl out, grasping for their ankles.

  Ian snatched an umbrella, abandoned by a porch, and stabbed down on one. They weaved between the puddles and vacant cars, dormant along the roads.

  “What… What’s going on?” wheezed William, stumbling.

  “Shut up, and save your energy!” shouted Ian as the screech of wheels hammered in his ears. He flung them toward a grass patch, groaning. The somber night cradled the streets, seizing the skies in a ripple of murkiness that darkened by the second.

  Streetlights flickered wildly, electricity buzzing as they surged past. They shattered in their wake, pale hands struggling to tear out of the dying bulbs.

  The winds increased, a stampede of rage slicing against their skin, and ghosts chased their frantic tread. In the corner of his eye, Ian caught a collection of bicycles, neatly arranged at the entrance of a park. Once, he’d strolled there with Victor and sampled sandalwood ice cream made by an old man who played chess.

  It wasn’t the time for that. He smashed the memory to the edges of his brain. It wasn’t real, he scolded his burdened mind.

  None of it was real.

  Even if the only thing that disqualified its sincerity was their concept of reality.

  Ian’s muscles bulged as he picked William up, chucking him into a seat. “Move your feet!”

  William obeyed by instinct, slamming on the pedals with a yelp. The bicycles granted them some speed, as Ian saw blurred faces of passersby chasing them with vacant eyes. Their heads would twist. The skin of their necks warping into a spiral, turning a full clockwise rotation.

  William’s bicycle veered upon noticing as he sobbed.

  Ian cursed, shouting. “Eyes straight! Do you value your life, or your sanity?”

  “Both!” wailed William. His tarantula peeked its multiple eyes out of his collar, baring its distress.

  “You can’t have both!”

  Once they arrived, Ian swerved his bike to the side and flew off his seat. He narrowly avoided a broken pocket watch, snapping open to reveal a bulging eyeball, inked and gloomy.

  They barged through the gates, kicked wide by a show-off Esper and his long legs, and made a mad dash for the stairs.

  A metal bucket soared overhead. Ian jabbed the tip of his neon umbrella up, clicking his tongue. When the objects collided, droplets of water scattered past them, and a razor-sharp burn sliced across his neck. Ian threw himself against the railing, but the distorted fingers were merciless, clawing against his arm.

  Victor snatched the umbrella, and with a jolt, it burst open. Water splashed against it before he hooked the bucket and tossed it over the staircase.

  He glanced at Ian, who wore a grudging glare. Victor smiled. “Don’t tell me, Guide, that you forgot you could open it?”

  Ian, who absolutely did, sneered. “Didn’t need it.”

  After avoiding an excess of buckets, a stray metal pen, a ruler, a window, and several more ridiculous objects, they were nearing the top. Then, hinges squealed overhead, and a light tread descended the stairway.

  Ian jerked his head up. And his heart plummeted to the soles of his feet.

  There, rounding the corner, a young woman lifted her long eyelashes. She brushed a strand of rich ebony from her face, and in her arms, she cradled three books.

  When she lifted her head, she startled. But an eager smile slowly spread across her face. “Ian?” she whispered, hurrying down. “What are you doing here? You should have called!”

  Ian couldn’t move. And in his stupefaction, pupils trembling and heart thudding, he missed a penny in the shadows of the stairs. A wrinkled hand emerged, reaching for his ankle.

  “Eloise,” he managed to mutter.

  She beamed. “That’s me! You’re acting so strange, silly. Is something—”

  Then the fingers seized and yanked hard. Ian jerked, but gravity dragged him backward—to the descending flight of stairs.

  “—wrong—Ian!”

  Books thudded from her arms, paper rustling past them in a storm. She lunged, grasping for him, and succeeded. Her warm hands. Her gentle touch.

  They grabbed Ian for a second and instinctively switched their positions.

  Midair, their gazes locked with a matching horror.

  Eloise shoved Ian into Victor’s ready arms, and the crunch of her body and bones echoed at the bottom. It happened so fast. Faster than the pitiful Guide’s incident.

  Ian’s mind scrambled. His chest constricted, and nausea churned a storm in his stomach—he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He thrashed against Victor’s firm embrace, but the Esper forced his head to bury in a steady chest and held him still.

  “Let me go!” snapped Ian, wheezing. He could still feel it—the imprint of her hands against his, and the softness of her smile, like sunbeams breaking through dawn. Eloise, all grown up. Eloise, who never made it past her teenage years. He choked. “Move, bastard! I’ll fucking kill you!”

  It was futile. Victor gazed past the squirming man, down at the woman painting the bottom of the flight of stairs in dark vermillion. It clotted her scattered raven hair, twisted limbs bent around it.

  Her eyes, a beautiful reflection that beheld a similar fire to Ian’s, were wide open.

  All humans had a bottom line. A border of sanity, where, once crossed, morals and self shattered.

  Victor had watched the destruction of many, both weak and strong. The deterioration of their minds after passing that line. The Guide was smart enough to understand this illusion was false, and sturdy enough to endure a hundred humiliations for the sake of his narrow path.

  But Eloise was the exception. Illusion, or not. Because while Victor remembered Ian, in these countless days of delusion, Ian would remember her.

  Eventually, Ian slumped against the Esper’s discomforting embrace. His breaths came shallow, his voice hoarse.

  “Enough,” he muttered. The coin had disappeared, all reflections temporarily stalled. There was only one person who could have done that, and by the stammer of energy circling Victor, Ian had a reasonable guess. “It’s time to leave this screwed-up delusion.

  William peered at them hesitantly, pale with terror. “Are you sure? Are you… alright—”

  “Go to the room,” commanded Ian coldly.

  All emotions drained from his tone, leaving remnants of a chilling frost that held nothing, not a single gram of weight. Terrifyingly empty.

  William frowned but nodded reluctantly, and the two followed behind.

  Not one looked back at the woman’s crooked corpse.