Chapter 1
Kaze
Present
The stench of alcohol clings to the air, thick and suffocating, like the haze of a hangover that never fades.
It curls into every corner of the space, stubborn and inescapable.
Once, that smell was a comfort, a marker of wild nights and reckless abandon.
Now it feels like chains, heavy and cold, a cruel reminder of everything I can never escape.
No matter how many times I try to wash it off, scrub my skin until it should be raw, the water slips through me.
I can’t feel it, not truly. It’s like I’m not even there.
And any spray of perfume I try to mask it with dissolves into the room, vanishing like a whisper in a storm.
I’m left with this constant, suffocating reminder of what I’ve become.
The hunger gnaws at me, too. It’s relentless, a raw, aching void that screams to be filled.
But food? Water? Even the simplest sip of a drink is out of reach.
My hands pass through plates, glasses, bottles, through anything solid, like a cruel joke played by the universe.
I’m always so close but utterly cut off, a prisoner of my intangibility.
And so, I hover. Starving. Watching. Waiting to siphon whatever scraps of sensation I can from the living, from those who still have what I don’t.
And to think, I used to laugh at this.
Back when I was still alive, I spent most of my reckless youth sneering at the spiritual.
The girls in my university class who obsessed over tarot cards and horoscopes?
They were an endless source of mockery. They’d prattle on about energy and chakras, and I’d roll my eyes, smug and self-assured.
If someone brought up the afterlife, I’d crack a joke, certain of my cleverness. It was all nonsense to me.
If only I’d known.
Life, or the universe, have a way of proving skeptics wrong. But the cruel irony? It wasn’t life that taught me the lesson; it was death.
Now, I wander through the den of drunks and addicts like I’m part of the shadows, unnoticed and unremarkable.
Their careless laughter ricochets off walls tinted with chaos by the dim strobe lights.
The bass-heavy music pounds through the cramped room, a more makeshift nightclub than a house, and the air thrums with the tang of sweat-spilled liquor and something sour.
It’s a perfect feeding ground for someone like me.
There’s a boy slumped against the wall, his head lolled back, his mouth slack.
His eyes are glassy and half-lidded, and he reeks of whiskey and bad decisions.
I drift closer, drawn by the pull of his energy.
My throat aches with the thirst I can’t quench.
Leaning into him, I feel the alcohol in his blood trickle into me, a faint echo of what drinking used to feel like to me.
It’s not perfect, a pale imitation at best, but it takes the edge off.
I’ve tried drawing energy from someone who was drinking water before. Just water. It didn’t work. There’s something about the burn of alcohol that reaches me now, something that ignites in the void where my life used to be.
I move on, gliding toward the center of the room where a group of guys sit hunched over a rickety table.
Poker chips scatter between their twitching fingers as they laugh too loudly, their voices cracking from the strain.
Lines of cocaine are spread out before them, glittering like powdered sin in the dim light.
I hover close, feeling the buzz of their energy, the high radiating off their skin.
As they snort, I siphon off a fraction of their rush.
It hums through me like static, a fleeting reprieve from the emptiness I constantly feel.
Being invisible has its perks. No one notices me slipping from one person to the next, no awkward small talk, no judgment.
Just pure, detached observation. But being here, in rooms like this, feels like watching an old, faded memory.
I see versions of myself in these kids, staggering through the night, chasing the next high.
It stirs something inside me, a hollow ache that feels like nostalgia… or maybe regret.
There’s a pain in me too, a persistent ache where my heart used to beat. Sometimes it feels sharp, like glass lodged beneath my phantom ribs, but I can never remember why it’s there.
I do, however, remember flashes of my life. Nights when I drank until my body gave out, flirting recklessly with anyone who crossed my path, while dancing as if I had something to prove. The endless shots, the overindulgence, the way I threw myself into the chaos like I was trying to drown in it.
Anything to feel alive.
Anything to keep the emptiness at bay.
Were they great times? I’m not sure anymore. The memories are blurred, warped by time and this strange, hollow existence. But as I linger in the haze of this place, watching the living squander what I’ve lost, one thought gnaws at me, louder than the hunger, sharper than the pain.
They don’t know how lucky they are to be alive.
Nobody does, until they’re not.
At first, I screamed.
I begged for anyone to notice me, desperate for some kind of connection, for proof I still existed. But no one flinched. The anger, the despair, it swallowed me whole, until I was nothing but a hollow ache.
Loneliness became my world.
Now? I’ve made peace with it. Invisibility has its perks.
The poker boys, high on booze and adrenaline, are on a roll. One fumbles with his phone, slurring directions to someone trying to find the party. Before he can finish, the blond, the house’s owner, with his Peter Pan syndrome in full swing, snatches the phone away, his voice loud and commanding.
Another leans back, smirking. “Man, I haven’t seen her in years. Can’t believe Mada got her to come.” A third chimes in saying something obscene about how great it would be to screw them both.
My eyes roll. They’re in their mid-twenties, but they act like teenagers, drunk on privilege and entitlement. If women knew half of what these guys say and do, they’d steer clear. But maybe that’s the kind of lesson you only learn the hard way.
I drift to a shadowed corner, away from their frat-boy antics. The air here feels heavier, more suffocating. Maybe it’s the weight of their cruelty, or perhaps it’s me, a ghost tethered to a world he can’t touch.
I don’t remember the last time I touched someone. Hell, I can’t even recall the last woman I slept with. But I hope I wasn’t like them.
God, I really hope I wasn’t like them because, although I need them to keep existing, I despise them.
The blond now stands by the door, the phone glued to his ear, and anticipation etched into his face. He’s waiting for the girls they’ve been hyping up all night, girls who won’t remember how they will leave this party, or what happens before they do.
The music thrums beneath me, the beat vibrating through the floor. Time blurs, and then I feel it, two distinct energies pushing through the crowd. My gaze snaps to them.
The first one I recognize instantly. She’s been here before, stumbling through her nights with wide eyes and a reckless grin.
Her long brown hair frames her face, her pale outfit glowing under the dim lights.
Her energy is heavy and unstable, but she appears to have an innocence that she doesn’t have.
She could be happier, brighter. But she chooses to keep appearing here and entangle herself with these assholes, one more than the rest.
The second girl… She’s the surprise.
My eyes focus on her and try to decipher her, but even though she’s far away, I immediately realize that she doesn’t belong here.
Everything about her feels out of place, too real, too grounded for this suffocating mess of a party.
My instinct screams at me to block her path, to warn her, to scream for her to run.
But I’m stuck, my ghostly form frozen as they approach the couch where I had been leaning previously.
Her dark hair cascades down to her chest, the tips dyed a deep, striking purple.
Her full lips tighten as her large, dark eyes, attentive and deep, scan the room.
She is restless, suspicious, and clearly uncomfortable.
In fact, she doesn’t seem to want to be here at all, and this becomes clear the moment she looks at the other girl as if she wants to scream.
One of the idiots, Mark, quickly approaches her, but she gets startled and takes two steps back.
That’s weird.
Instinctively, I move towards them but quickly remember that there’s nothing I can do, not like this. And the feeling of helplessness haunts me.
So I lean back against the wall again and watch them while begging her with my eyes to have enough strength to turn around and walk away.
I feel like I should know her. I don’t… but it’s as if I do.
She seems the type of girl I avoided in the past, the ones who talked about stars and the universe, who believed in things I laughed at. But now, I can’t look away.
Despite her discomfort, her friend ignores her, and they end up sitting with the assholes, but the look she gives Mark is enough for him to keep his distance.
Good girl. Now leave! I implore, murmuring, knowing that unfortunately, she’s unable to hear me or see me.
The guys, grinning like idiots, keep trying to swarm both girls, pulling them into their orbit, but that only works with one.
Their girl accepts a drink without hesitation, her laughter rising easily over the music.
She fits right in, lighting up the space like a fake spark, being immediately too much, but I don’t miss how her aura flickers when the first guy with the phone, James, I think, leans in close.
There’s a certain intimacy between them, though it doesn’t hold my attention for long.
No, my focus keeps drifting back to the purple-haired girl.
Her aura is different.
Dark and deep, but not dense. It’s more like the ocean at night or the night sky itself. Mysterious, profound, thoughtful.
There’s a stillness to her, something calm but unsettling. It makes me want to dive in, to see just how far her depths go.
And she’s beautiful… But there’s more than that. She seems… broken.
Her hesitation is palpable, clinging to her like a second skin. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, a barrier against the world around her. She rejects a drink with a curt shake of her head, her lips pressing into a firm line as if sealing in words she’s too polite, or too furious, to say.
She casts a glance toward the other girl, her expression tightening. Her jaw clenches, frustration flashing in her eyes. There’s definitely anger there, directed at her friend for dragging her into this place. I can almost hear the unspoken argument between them.
Why did you bring me here?
What am I doing in this place?
But instead of leaving like she wants so much, she ends up leaning against the back of the couch, her posture stiff, every line of her body screaming that she’d rather be anywhere else.
I try to distract myself with everything else happening around me, but I can’t manage for long.
The minutes pass, and I keep feeling a pull toward her, stronger than anything I’ve felt in years.
It’s not just her discomfort; it’s the way she’s holding herself together despite it.
She’s a storm contained, and I want nothing more than to shield her from this place, from these people.
My presence aches to be near her, as if I could somehow offer her solace or pull her out of this nightmare.
Then it happens.
Her eyes sweep the room, restless, searching for something… probably a way out, and one I would probably show her.
But instead of finding it, her eyes land on me, and they stop.
Wait. Her eyes, they’re on me.
Fantastic.
Who’s the asshole behind me she’s looking at?
I turn instinctively, expecting to find someone lurking in the corner, but there’s no one. Just the wall. No beer kegs, no party decorations, not even a shadow.
Is she… looking at me?
I freeze, a strange, nervous energy coursing through me. It doesn’t make sense. She can’t see me. No one can see me. I’ve tried to make them see me, and it never works. But her gaze doesn’t waver, and my heart, if I still had one, would be pounding.
Her brows knit together, and her lips part slightly in shock. Her face shifts through disbelief, confusion, and… recognition? It’s as if she’s trying to reconcile what she’s seeing with what she knows should be impossible.
I quickly look down at myself and then back at her, returning the curious look she gives me, but before long, she gets up, ignoring the dude trying to get her attention, and takes a hesitant step forward, her hand twitching at her side, as if she wants to reach out but doesn’t dare.
And then she smiles sadly. It’s small, hurtful, tentative, but unmistakably directed at me.
For a moment, I feel something strange, a flicker of warmth, of life. My chest tightens with a sensation I thought I’d forgotten, and the world around us seems to fade.
I’m screwed.
I’m definitely screwed. But I move in her direction, unable to do anything else. However, the spell is broken as soon as someone gets between us, and before I can do something stupid, the nerves get the better of me, and I hide.
For the first time, since I can remember being a ghost, I hide, and regret it immediately.