1990'S META'S POV:
My world was built on absolutes. Every variable, I believed, could be identified, analyzed, and neutralized. It was a truth instilled in me since childhood, honed by my father, the leader of one of Thailand's largest mafia syndicates. While my siblings chose lives far from the relentless brutality, I embraced the path of the heir, trained to see threats, not people. The supernatural? A construct for the weak, an illogical, inefficient variable that simply did not exist. That was my unwavering belief—until the anomaly appeared.
The first encounter was by the river. Ten of a rival family's men were cooling on the ground behind me, but their reinforcements were a relentless tide. The water was a tactical choice. Then I saw the hand. My training screamed at me to ignore it—a distraction, a potential trap set by my pursuers. But a different, colder instinct took over: curiosity. An unknown variable had entered my equation. I don't save people; I analyze situations. I dragged the boy from the river not out of compassion, but out of a need to dissect this unexpected piece of data.
He was infuriatingly real. His weight was a tangible drag, his skin clammy. When he awoke and spoke my name—a name only my inner circle knows—my analysis shifted. He was a plant, an asset from an enemy trying a new, unorthodox approach. But his fear was sloppy, unfeigned. It lacked the discipline of a trained operative. When he fell into the river a second time and simply… ceased to exist… my logic failed. It was an impossible outcome. I dismissed it as a stress-induced hallucination. The variable was noted, but categorized as unreliable data.
The second encounter, two months later, was an escalation. He materialized in my private Jacuzzi. My hypothesis of him being a simple spy was instantly invalidated. I decided to conduct an experiment. I put my hands on him. His flesh was solid, and beneath it, I felt the frantic thrum of a human pulse. Data point A: He is physically real. Then he kicked me. The impact was negligible, but it was an impact nonetheless. Data point B: He can exert physical force. These facts were concrete. And then he dissolved, dissipating into the water like salt. A complete defiance of the laws of physics. My mind, trained to find patterns in chaos, was facing a paradox. He was both real and unreal. It was beginning to feel like an attack on my sanity.
For two months, the anomaly haunted my subconscious. My dreams were contaminated with illogical scenarios: kissing him, but a version of myself without the scar that defines me, in a futuristic city I'd never seen. His existence became a persistent, irritating hum in the back of my mind.
The third encounter was the catalyst. The dogs had been unleashed again, another pathetic attempt by a lesser syndicate to eliminate the heir. The chase led me to a derelict hotel, and when the elevator doors opened, he was there. This time, I would not rely on my own senses. I would observe his interaction with the environment and with third parties.
The results were conclusive.
Evidence Point 1: Impervious to Projectiles. When my enemies opened fire, the bullets sparked and ricocheted, but Thyme registered no physical impact. I watched as a phantom fist seemed to punch through his sternum, a split-second of icy displacement, yet his shirt remained impossibly intact. He only showed the terror of a boy who thought he should be dead, bracing for an impact that never came.
Evidence Point 2: Lack of Physical Interaction with Light and Imperceptible to a Neutral Observer. In the corridor, he cast no shadow. He had no reflection. Later, in the getaway car, my driver—a man whose perception I trust—asked me who I was talking to. Thyme shrieked, desperately waving his hands, trying to catch the driver's eye, utterly oblivious to him. My driver simply stared straight ahead. It was then I confirmed what the bullets had implied: "I'm the only one who can see you."
My internal debate was over. The data, however illogical, was irrefutable. The anomaly was not human. He was a ghost. My mind, finally forced to accept the impossible premise, was flooded with a new set of variables. A ghost that is solid to my touch alone. A ghost that can exert force upon me. A ghost that is completely, pathetically unaware of his own nature.
The question is no longer what he is. The question is why I, the heir to a criminal empire built on brutal logic, am the sole observer of this phenomenon. He is no longer just an anomaly. He is my anomaly. And I will dissect this mystery until I understand every single, impossible piece of him.
The ghost remained silent, a collapsed puppet against the plush leather of the sedan. He seemed to be processing the violent spectacle and the impossible truth of his own condition. For a creature that bullets passed through, he was remarkably breakable. The shock had been enough to sever his connection to... wherever he resided. I watched him, a fascinating, infuriating anomaly. I don't waste time on sentiment, but this... this required analysis. I don't save people, but I do collect unique assets.
He stirred, a faint tremor, and his wide, terrified eyes found mine in the dim light of the passing streetlamps. He was a ghost who hadn't realized he was dead. The silence in the car was thick, broken only by the hum of the engine and the distant wail of sirens. I didn't want my driver to think his boss was conversing with thin air.
I leaned closer, my voice a low command, meant for his ears only. "Your designation. What is it?"
He flinched, the fear rolling off him in palpable waves. He hesitated, his throat working but producing no sound. My patience is a finite resource.
"I won't ask again," I stated. The threat was not in my tone, but in the cold stillness that followed.
"Thyme," he finally choked out, the word barely a whisper.
Thyme. A soft name for such a troublesome variable. Before I could demand clarification, the world outside the armored windows dissolved. We plunged into a thick, unnatural bank of fog that swallowed the road whole, the city lights vanishing as if they'd never been.
I felt a subtle shift in the air beside me, a sudden cold spot where he had been. I turned my head. He was gone. The window was open a few inches, tendrils of the dense mist coiling into the car like spectral fingers. He had vanished with it, merged into the gray nothingness.
My jaw tightened. He opened the window. He controlled this. Or he was controlled by it. Another impossible data point. A ghost that can manipulate its environment. My mind, a machine built for logic and order, was being fed paradoxes. The irritation was a cold fire in my gut. I am a man who dissects his problems until they are nothing but component parts. This ghost was a puzzle I would shatter into pieces to understand.
My gaze snapped to the rearview mirror, meeting the eyes of my driver.
"Sakda," my voice was flat, devoid of the afternoon's chaos. "Inform Thawa that upon our return to the estate, the library is to be sealed. I will be using it. No one, under any circumstances, is to be within a hundred meters of the wing until I emerge."
My mother's obsession with the arcane had always been a source of private derision for me. She collected dusty tomes on folklore, mythology, and supernatural case studies from around the globe. I'd seen them as the frivolous hobby of a woman insulated from the world's harsh realities. Tonight, for the first time, I considered they might be practical. They might contain data on this new, impossible reality I was facing.
"Understood, Boss," Sakda replied, his eyes flickering away from the mirror, showing the practiced obedience of a man who knows not to question an order, no matter how strange.
I settled back against the leather, my eyes fixed on the empty space beside me. The ghost, Thyme, was an unknown variable in my perfectly controlled world. And I would hunt down every piece of information, every myth, every whispered story, until I could define him, categorize him, and understand why, out of all the souls in this city, he was haunting me. He was no longer just an anomaly. He was my anomaly. And I always take possession of what is mine.
The black sedan swept through the estate gates, a silent predator returning to its lair. The passenger seat beside me remained empty, the air still holding a faint, unnatural chill where the fog had coiled its way in and reclaimed the ghost. Thyme. An impossible variable.
Before the car had even come to a complete stop, Sakda was already speaking quietly into his comms, relaying my command. "The library is to be sealed. The young master requires solitude. No staff within the west wing."
Confirmation crackled back. My world operated on brutal efficiency. One word from me and locks were thrown, schedules were altered, and people disappeared. Yet, I couldn't command a wisp of fog or a specter with sad eyes. The thought was a sharp, irritating burr under my skin.