Chapter 3
The streets had quieted by the time Ethan finally slowed down. Sirens still wailed faintly in the distance, but here, on a narrow block lined with shuttered shops and flickering lamps, the chaos felt far away.
He sank onto a bench beneath a crooked lamppost, chest heaving, though the burn in his lungs faded quicker than it should have. Ghost or human, whatever he was now, his body didn't work the same.
The light overhead buzzed, throwing pale gold against the sidewalk. Ethan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
"What a day," he muttered.
He ticked it off in his head. Robbery. Death. Some cloak-wearing lunatic ranting about flat earth and domes. Flying. Slamming face-first into an invisible wall in the sky. Then waking up alive again with paramedics staring at him like he was Frankenstein's monster.
And now… this. Seeing veins of light in the air, shadows crawling where they shouldn't, whispers just out of reach.
"Totally normal Tuesday," he said under his breath, dragging both hands down his face.
For a long while he just sat there, staring at the empty street, listening to the faint hum of the city. Maybe if he stayed here long enough, the world would tilt back into place. Maybe he'd wake up in his bed and laugh about the nightmare.
But deep down, he already knew. Normal was gone.
With a tired sigh, he pushed himself up from the bench. "Home," he whispered. "I just… need to get home."
He started down the sidewalk, the lamppost fading behind him as the night grew darker.
The walk home stretched longer than it should have. Each block felt foreign, like the city had shifted while he wasn't looking. Streetlights glowed too harshly. Shadows pooled too deep.
Ethan shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his head down. If he pretended not to notice the strange flickers and whispers, maybe they'd pretend not to notice him.
Then he saw it.
At first, he thought it was just a shape in the dark—a trash heap slumped against the wall of an alley. But when it moved, dragging itself upright with a jerky, unnatural grace, his stomach dropped.
The thing was smaller than a man, hunched, limbs too long, its skin—or whatever passed for it—smoky and insubstantial, like shadow made solid. Two pinpricks of pale light burned where its eyes should be.
And they locked onto him.
Ethan froze. His pulse hammered in his throat.
The ghost tilted its head, the motion slow, deliberate, almost curious. Its lips peeled back in something that might've been a grin—or just the stretching of shadow into a grotesque shape.
Ethan's breath caught. Instinct roared louder than thought. He turned on his heel and bolted.
"Shitshitshitshit—!"
The slap of his sneakers echoed off the pavement, louder than the sirens, louder than his heartbeat. Behind him, the whisper of movement gave chase, steady and inevitable.
His chest heaved. "Is that—god—it's a ghost, right? When the hell does this nightmare end?!"
He darted around a corner, the cold night air tearing at his lungs. His only thought was distance. Get away. Go home. Wake up. But when he risked a glance back—
The shadow was gaining.
He cut left, shoving himself through a gap in a chain-link fence. A junkyard opened up in front of him, a maze of rusted cars and scrap metal. He stumbled inside, heart hammering.
The ghost slid through the fence like mist.
Ethan snatched the first thing he saw—a vehicle wheel trim and threw it. Clang. It bounced off a pile of junk, useless.
"Great. That worked."
The ghost floated closer.
He grabbed a metal pipe and swung with everything he had. The pipe went straight through the ghost's chest. Shadows scattered and reformed. The thing only laughed, louder now, like it was enjoying the game.
"Not good. Not good at all—" Ethan tripped over a tire, hitting the ground hard. His hand landed against a metal barrel, still warm. Inside, charred wood glowed faintly with embers.
His eyes widened. Fire.
He scrambled up, yanking a broken plank from the ground, shoving it into the coals. Sparks flared, then the wood caught, flames licking up the end. Ethan raised it like a torch, sweat dripping down his temple.
The ghost paused. Its grin faltered for the first time.
"Oh, you don't like that, huh?" Ethan said, voice shaking.
He backed into a narrow row of hanging cloth sheets, holding the torch out. The ghost followed slowly, grin returning as the space around Ethan closed in tighter.
It floated closer. Closer. The laugh rose again, low and cruel.
Ethan waited, heart banging against his ribs.
The ghost lunged at him .
He ducked and slashed the torch across the sheets. Fire roared to life, racing through the fabric, heat blasting the corridor. The ghost shrieked, its body writhing as flames swallowed it whole. Ethan hit the dirt, covering his head as sparks rained down.
When he looked up, the ghost was still there—charred, weakened, twitching on the ground. But not gone.
"You've gotta be kidding me…"
The creature trying to drag itself upright, smoldering eyes still locked on him.
Then—
A sharp beam of blue light cut across the junkyard, striking the ghost square in the chest. In an instant, the shadow blew apart into smoke, vanishing like it had never existed.
Ethan's ears rang in the silence.
A man stepped forward from between the piles of junk. His coat brushed his knees, and in his hands was a sleek rifle humming with fading energy. He walked without hurry, calm, steady, as though this was nothing new.
"Word got out about a ghost lurking here," the man said evenly. His eyes flicked to the burned sheets, then back to Ethan. "Looks like I came just in time. Though…" A faint smile touched his mouth. "Looks like you already took care of most of it."
Ethan just stared, still shaking.
"Impressive," the man added, "Even if it was just a level four."
He slung the weapon over his shoulder and nodded once. "You just awakened, didn't you?"
"Awakened?" Ethan croaked.
"It happens sometimes," the man said simply. "Rare, but not impossible."
He extended a hand. "Name's Michael. And you?"
"…Ethan."
Michael studied him for a moment. "Ethan, How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
"Hmm. Young. Still raw . But I guess that's Understandable. you've got potential kid." His voice was calm, certain, like he'd already decided something. "I scout ghost-hunter talents across the globe. Indeed we are rare. But there are scholarships for people like you.
He adjusted the strap of his rifle, eyes steady on Ethan.
"How would you like to attend Arcanis Academy?"
Ethan blinked, still breathless, ash clinging to his clothes.
"…Huh?"