I shouldn't have come to his apartment.
But after two days of replaying our hospital conversation, I couldn't shake the image of Damian lying in that narrow bed, confused and scared. The memory of Mark's spirit trapped inside his mind. The warning from Weber's guardian spirit.
Be careful. There are people who don't want you to help me.
So here I was, standing outside 1247 Maple Avenue with a bag of groceries and a story about being a concerned therapist checking on a patient. Not my most professional moment, but nothing about this situation was professional anymore.
I pressed the buzzer for apartment 3B.
"Hello?" Damian's voice crackled through the intercom. He sounded tired.
"Mr. Grey? It's Dr. Mitchell. I wanted to check on you after your hospital stay. Make sure you're settling in okay."
A long pause. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know. But I was in the neighborhood, and I brought some soup. Hospital food isn't exactly healing."
Another pause. Then the door buzzed open.
His apartment was on the third floor, down a narrow hallway that smelled like old carpet and someone's cooking. The building was older but well-maintained, the kind of place where young professionals lived before they could afford something better.
Damian opened his door before I could knock. He looked better than he had in the hospital—more color in his face, steadier on his feet. But there was something fragile about him, like he was holding himself together through sheer willpower.
"You really didn't need to come," he said, but he stepped aside to let me in.
"I wanted to. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck. But the doctors said that's normal after a seizure."
I followed him into the main room, and immediately understood why he looked so exhausted. The apartment was chaos.
Books scattered across the floor. Papers everywhere. Furniture pushed out of place like he'd been searching for something. The kitchen counter was covered with empty coffee cups and takeout containers. It looked like the home of someone who wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating properly, wasn't taking care of himself.
"Sorry about the mess," Damian said, rubbing that spot on his temple. "I've been having trouble... focusing. Since the accident. I start cleaning and then forget what I was doing."
I set the grocery bag on the counter, moving aside a stack of unopened mail. "That's actually more common than you'd think. Trauma can affect short-term memory, executive function."
It wasn't entirely a lie. But this looked less like trauma and more like someone fighting a war inside his own head.
"Can I make you some tea?" I asked. "Maybe we could talk about how you're adjusting."
He nodded gratefully. "That would be nice. I don't get many visitors."
While I searched for clean mugs and put the kettle on, Damian started gathering papers from the coffee table. His movements were jerky, uncoordinated. Twice he stopped mid-motion, like he'd forgotten what he was doing.
"Damian, have you been keeping a journal? Sometimes writing can help process traumatic experiences."
He paused, a handful of papers in his grip. "How did you know about that?"
"Just a guess. It's a common therapeutic technique."
"I have been writing. But..." He frowned. "It's strange. Sometimes I write things I don't remember writing. Sometimes I find pages in my own handwriting that don't make sense."
My heart started beating faster. "What kind of things?"
"Memories that aren't mine. Dreams about places I've never been. People I've never met." He looked at me directly. "Sometimes I write about a woman named Ivy."
The kettle whistled. I turned away to hide my expression, taking longer than necessary to pour the water. "Tell me about these memories."
"They feel real. More real than my actual memories sometimes. Being married to someone. Having a home with her. Loving her so much it hurt." He sat down heavily on the couch. "But I've never been married. I've never even had a serious girlfriend."
Because they were Mark's memories. Mark's love for me, bleeding through the spiritual connection.
I brought him a mug of tea and sat in the chair across from him. "Where do you keep this journal?"
"In my bedroom. I write before bed, when the voices are quieter."
"Would you feel comfortable showing it to me? Sometimes a trained perspective can help identify patterns."
He hesitated. "It's pretty personal. Probably sounds crazy."
"I've heard a lot of things that sound crazy. Very little of it actually is."
He stood up, moving with that same careful gait I'd noticed at the coffee shop. "Okay. But don't judge me too harshly."
His bedroom was as disheveled as the living room. Clothes on the floor, unmade bed, more scattered papers. But on the nightstand sat a leather-bound journal, closed with a rubber band.
Damian picked it up, holding it like it might bite him. "I bought this after the accident. Thought writing might help with the nightmares."
He handed it to me and sat on the edge of the bed.
I opened to the first page, dated three months ago. Just a few days after Mark's death.
Day 1 - Don't remember much about yesterday. Woke up in the hospital. They say I hurt someone. I don't remember driving drunk. I don't remember drinking at all.
The handwriting was shaky but clearly Damian's. I flipped through several pages, watching his entries become longer, more detailed. But also more confused.
Day 15 - Dreamed about a woman with brown hair again. We were having breakfast in a sunny kitchen. She laughed at something I said, and I felt so happy I thought my heart would burst. But I woke up alone, and I don't know who she was.
Day 23 - Saw a couple at the grocery store. The man touched the woman's back while she looked at apples, and I felt this overwhelming sadness. Like I was remembering something I'd lost. But I've never lost anyone like that.
My hands were shaking as I turned the pages. These weren't just memories bleeding through—they were Mark's emotions, his love for me, experienced through Damian's consciousness.
Day 31 - The voice was clearer today. It said a name: Ivy. When I heard it, I felt like crying. Like that name meant everything to me. But I don't know any Ivy.
"Damian," I said softly. "These entries about Ivy. Do you remember writing them?"
"Some of them. But when I read them back, it's like reading about someone else's life. Someone who loved her more than anything." He rubbed his forehead. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm going crazy."
Day 45 - I think someone was murdered. I keep having this nightmare about a car accident, but it feels different each time I dream it. Sometimes I'm the driver. Sometimes I'm watching from outside. Sometimes I'm the one getting hit.
Day 52 - Went to the place where it happened. The intersection where I hit him. Stood there for an hour waiting to remember something. Anything. But there's just this blank space where that night should be.
I turned the page and froze.
The handwriting had changed.
It was still Damian's pen, still his journal. But the letters were different. Neater. More controlled. Like someone else had been guiding his hand.
Day 60 - She doesn't know I'm here. Ivy doesn't know I'm still with her. But I can see her sometimes, in the spaces between his dreams. She's so sad. So alone. I want to hold her, but I can't. I'm trapped.
My vision blurred. Mark. Mark had written this.
Day 65 - He's getting stronger. The walls between us are breaking down. Sometimes I can make him walk to places that matter to us. Our coffee shop. The park where we had our first date. But he doesn't understand why.
I flipped ahead, the pages shaking in my hands.
Day 78 - Weber came to see him today. Told him he was monitoring his recovery, making sure there were no "complications." But I could see the ring on Weber's finger. The same ring from that night. He's checking on his binding, making sure I'm still trapped.
Day 89 - I tried to write her a letter. Tried to make him write down everything I needed to tell her. But Weber's magic is too strong. Every time I get close to the truth, something stops me. Like a wall in my mind.
I reached the last entry, dated just yesterday.
The handwriting was different again. Desperate, urgent. Letters pressed so hard into the paper they'd nearly torn through.
I'm not Damian. I'm Mark. If you're reading this, please—I need help. I'm trapped inside his mind and I can't get out. Weber killed me and bound my soul to this man's body. Ivy, if somehow you find this, I love you. I never stopped loving you. But you have to save both of us before Weber realizes how much control I'm gaining. The binding is weakening. Soon I might be able to take over completely. But if that happens, Damian will die. And I can't live with destroying an innocent man's life the way Weber destroyed ours.
Save us both. Please.
-Mark
The journal fell from my hands.
Damian was watching me with concerned eyes. "Dr. Mitchell? Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I stared at him, at this man whose body contained my husband's soul. Whose handwriting Mark had somehow controlled long enough to leave me a message.
"The last entry," I managed. "Do you remember writing it?"
"Yesterday? Yeah, I think so. I was really agitated about something. Felt like I had to write, like it was urgent. But when I tried to read it back..." He shrugged. "I must have been half asleep. It doesn't make much sense."
Because he hadn't been in control when Mark wrote it. My husband had somehow pushed through the barriers in Damian's mind long enough to reach out to me.
"Damian," I said carefully, "has anyone else been in your apartment recently? Any visitors?"
"Just Weber. He stops by sometimes to check on me. Says he feels responsible since he was the last person to see me before the accident."
Weber had been here. In this room. Probably checking on the binding, making sure Mark's spirit was still contained.
"When was the last time he visited?"
"Two days ago. Right before I went to the trauma center." He frowned. "Actually, he seemed upset about something. Kept asking if I'd been talking to anyone new. Anyone asking questions about that night."
About me. Weber was getting suspicious about my investigation.
I picked up the journal again, staring at Mark's desperate plea. He was trapped, but he was also gaining strength. The binding was weakening.
Which meant Weber would notice soon. And when he did, he'd either strengthen the binding or eliminate both Mark and Damian to protect his secret.
"Dr. Mitchell?" Damian's voice seemed to come from far away. "You're scaring me. What's wrong?"
I looked at him—really looked at him. This man who'd become an unwilling prison for my husband's soul. Who was fighting a battle inside his own mind without understanding what was happening to him.
Mark was right. I had to save them both.
But first, I had to figure out how to break a supernatural binding I didn't understand, created by magic I'd never encountered.
And I had to do it before Weber realized his control was slipping.
"Damian," I said, standing up and putting the journal back on his nightstand. "I want you to promise me something."
"Okay."
"If Weber comes to visit again, don't let him in. Make an excuse. Say you're sick, or you have company. Whatever it takes."
"Why? What's wrong with Mr. Weber?"
Because he murdered my husband and turned you into a weapon. Because he's using dark magic to build a criminal empire. Because he'll kill us both if he realizes how much I know.
"I think he might not have your best interests at heart," I said instead. "Sometimes people who seem helpful have their own agendas."
Damian nodded slowly. "I've been getting that feeling too. Like he's watching me, waiting for something."
"Trust that instinct. And if anything strange happens—if you feel like you're losing time, or if you wake up somewhere you don't remember going—call me immediately."
I pulled out one of my real business cards and wrote my personal cell number on the back. "Day or night. Promise me."
"I promise." He took the card, and our fingers brushed. For just a moment, I felt Mark's presence stir in response to my touch. Warm, grateful, desperate.
Thank you, his voice whispered in my mind. For not giving up on us.
Then the connection faded, and I was left looking into Damian's confused brown eyes.
"I should go," I said. "But remember what I told you. Be careful who you trust."
I walked toward the door, my mind racing with everything I'd learned. Mark's consciousness was becoming stronger. The binding was weakening. Weber was getting suspicious.
I was running out of time.
"Dr. Mitchell?" Damian called after me.
I turned back.
"Thank you. For caring enough to come check on me. I don't think anyone's ever done that before."
The simple gratitude in his voice nearly broke my heart. This man was as much a victim as Mark and I were. An innocent person whose life had been destroyed by Weber's magic.
I was going to save him. Both of them.
Even if it killed me.