I had known for a long time. I was nothing more than a dead man's shadow.
Everyone in our circle whispered that I, Silas Shen, had raised a canary who was silent, docile, and never stepped out of line. They envied my "exquisite taste," claiming Lyra Lin's face was as ethereal and cold as mountain snow. But only I knew the truth. When she looked at me, her eyes never actually found me. Her gaze always drifted past, searching for a phantom lost in the void.
I didn't "stumble" upon that photograph. I sought it out.
Three years ago, in the shadowed alley of a bar, I met Lyra for the first time. She was wasted, clutching my lapels with trembling hands, whispering a name that wasn't mine. I didn't push her away. Instead, I let her pull me into her world and took her home. In that moment, within the graveyard of her eyes, I saw a devotion so profound and destructive it made me shiver. I realized then that if even a fraction of that obsession could be directed at me, I would gladly play any role she desired.
To perfect the "stand-in," I dissected every habit that man possessed. He favored white shirts, so I discarded my bespoke suits. He spoke with the warmth of polished jade, so I buried my ruthlessness and mimicked the cadence of a gentle soul. I knew Lyra avoided my eyes because they were too piercing, lacking the serenity of the man she lost. So, whenever we were intimate, I plunged the room into darkness or forced her to turn away.
I believed I could sustain the charade forever. Until today.
I went to the cemetery to retrieve her and saw her offer that cold slab of marble a smile she had never once granted me. Jealousy coiled like a viper in my chest, fangs sinking deep. I returned to the villa and retrieved the photo she kept buried beneath her pillow.
The boy in that picture smiled with a radiance that felt like a physical blow. And Lyra, standing beside him, had eyes that were alive with light.
I cut the lights and waited in the silence. As my cigarette ember pulsed in the dark, the monster in my mind shrieked:
"Destroy her. Or erase the dead man."
When she walked in and asked, "So, you know?" with that clinical, murderous composure, I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice.
I lunged toward her, a cocktail of gin and rage. I caught her chin in a vice grip, forcing her focus—finally—onto me. "Lyra, do you really think you're just seeking solace?" My voice was a jagged rasp, laced with a sick sense of relief. "No. This is murder. Every day, you use his ghost like a blade to carve the life out of me."
She tried to shove me back, speaking of "settling the score." What a pathetic joke. To become this shadow, I've eviscerated myself, leaving my pride to rot in the muck. And now she decides the curtains have fallen? That she can just walk away?
I leaned down and savored the metallic tang of blood as I bit into her lip. In the dark, I breathed a frantic, demonic vow against her skin:
"If you love the dead so much, Lyra, then I'll rot in the earth right beside you. In this life, and every eternity that follows, you will never see any light but me."