Chapter 9
Nine
Thorne’s apartment felt like a hollow shell, polished and lifeless. The sleek furniture, the dim lighting, the scent of expensive whiskey faint in the air—it was all so meticulously curated. Just like him.
He sat on the couch, head tipped back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling like it held answers he couldn’t find. A half-empty glass dangled from his fingers, the amber liquid catching the light as it swirled lazily with his restless movements.
I drifted closer, skimming along the edges of the room, careful not to get too close. Everything about this place was so perfectly in place, so controlled, that my presence felt like an intrusion.
My gaze fell on him again, on the way his hand tightened imperceptibly around the glass. His jaw clenched, then relaxed, his eyes hooded but far from at ease. It was strange, seeing him like this—unguarded. Alone.
“You’re not as invincible as you think,” I muttered, the words more for me than him.
I turned toward the kitchen counter, my attention catching on the chair nearest me. The urge hit before I could stop it—an ache to feel something, anything, in this empty shell of an existence.
Slowly, I reached out. My fingers hovered over the back of the chair, and for the first time since my death, I felt resistance. Solid, tangible.
My chest tightened with a jolt of shock, and I pressed down harder, my translucent hand flickering as it met the cold wood.
The chair wobbled.
Energy surged through me, sharp and electric, filling the void where my soul should have been. I pushed harder, gripping the chair’s back with both hands, and it tipped. The moment it hit the ground with a sharp crash, an invisible force yanked at me, hollowing me out.
I staggered—or at least, it felt like staggering. My form flickered as exhaustion slammed into me like a wave, dragging me under.
The sound of the chair hitting the floor startled Thorne, snapping him out of his haze. His head shot up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, his voice sharp and clipped.
He stood, moving toward the chair with the cautious precision of someone who didn’t trust what he was seeing. He crouched, brushing his fingers over the edge of the seat before setting it upright.
I backed away, my energy drained to the point where I felt like I might dissolve entirely. My legs—or whatever I had now—wavered beneath me as I pressed myself against the far wall.
Thorne lingered near the chair, his hand still resting on it. His brows furrowed, a flicker of something uncertain crossing his face.
“Great,” he muttered, standing abruptly. “Now I’m hearing things.” He tossed back the rest of his whiskey and retreated to the couch, shaking his head like he could dismiss the disturbance.
I stared at the chair, my mind spinning. I’d touched it. I’d felt it. I’d moved it.
But it had cost me.
Every second my hands had been on the wood, I’d felt the life drain out of me—or whatever was left of me. The effort had been exhilarating and terrifying, a reminder that I was still tied to the physical world, even if I didn’t belong to it anymore.
“Is this normal?” I whispered, my voice shaking as I slid to the floor.
Thorne’s breathing steadied, his posture sinking back into lazy indifference as he lounged on the couch. For him, the moment was over. A random noise, nothing more.
For me, it was everything.
Thorne’s apartment faded into the background as the exhaustion from toppling the chair settled deep into my core. My form felt thinner, lighter, as though I’d burned through what little energy I had left just to prove I still existed. But the flicker of triumph at finally making contact with the physical world lingered, cutting through the weight of despair like a sliver of light.
I could do this again. I had to.
Hovering near the edge of the kitchen, I focused on the half-empty glass of water sitting on the counter. Thorne had left it there earlier, abandoned in favor of a stronger drink. My gaze locked onto it, my thoughts narrowing to a single point of focus.
Move.
I poured everything I had into the command, willing the glass to shift even slightly. The apartment grew colder, the lights dimming just enough to notice. I watched my form flicker, strained and weak, but I didn’t stop. The bond pulsed faintly, stirring with an energy that wasn’t mine, and I seized it.
A faint tremor ran through the counter, barely noticeable, but enough to send a ripple through the water in the glass. My chest tightened with an emotion I couldn’t name—elation, maybe, or fear.
The glass didn’t topple. It didn’t shatter. But the ripple was enough.
I staggered back—or at least, the ghostly equivalent of staggering. My energy waned again, my form flickering like a dying light bulb. I slumped against the wall, clutching at nothing, my breaths phantom gasps that never seemed to reach my lungs.
“It’s... possible,” I murmured, the words trembling on my lips. “I can still touch this world.”
The realization sent a shiver through me, excitement and dread intertwining in equal measure. I wasn’t entirely powerless. But whatever I’d just done had taken more out of me than I expected. The bond throbbed faintly, like a heartbeat just out of reach, and for the first time, I felt something other than hatred for it.
Maybe this wasn’t just a chain keeping me tethered. Maybe it was fuel.
Thorne’s footsteps echoed in the distance, pulling me from my thoughts. He was in the living room now, sprawled on the couch with his phone in hand, completely unaware of the flicker of energy I’d unleashed in his space. His indifference sparked a sharp ache in my chest, but I shoved it aside.
I drifted toward the nearest lamp, my eyes narrowing at the bulb. The light seemed to hum faintly, its glow steady and unchanging. Could I touch it? Could I dim it, just for a moment?
The bond stirred again, feeding me just enough strength to try. I reached out, my hand trembling as I focused on the filament inside. The air around me grew colder, the light flickering once, then twice. Thorne glanced up from his phone, his brow furrowing as he scanned the room.
The flickering stopped, and I stumbled back, drained but triumphant. My form wavered, threatening to dissolve entirely, but I clung to the remnants of my strength.
It was working. Slowly, painfully, but it was working.
I spent what felt like hours testing my limits, pushing the boundaries of what I could do. A chair slid an inch across the floor. A door creaked open just enough to catch the air. The flicker of lights became more consistent, each pulse of energy dragging me closer to the edge of exhaustion.
And yet, with every attempt, I felt the faintest sliver of growth. The bond’s energy wasn’t infinite, but it responded to proximity. The closer I was to Thorne, the stronger I felt, even if the strength was fleeting.
It wasn’t fair. The bond that had tethered me to this hollow existence was now my only source of power. The same bond that had let them reject me, break me, destroy me.
My gaze drifted to Thorne, still lounging on the couch as though nothing had happened. He scrolled through his phone with casual indifference, his lips twitching into a faint smirk at something he read. The urge to shatter the glass beside him, to force him to see me, surged through me like fire.
But I wasn’t strong enough for that. Not yet.
Instead, I let myself sink into the shadows, my energy dwindling as the bond throbbed faintly in the back of my mind. I didn’t know how far I could push myself before I unraveled completely. But for the first time since my death, I felt the spark of something I thought I’d lost.
Hope.
Not the soft, fragile hope I’d clung to in life. This was darker, sharper. A hope forged from desperation and rage, from the relentless need to prove that I wasn’t gone.
That I wasn’t done. Not yet.