Wraith #2
Thane's called away for an interview about predictions and team chemistry. He shoots me a look before he goes—keep it together—and then he's swallowed by the media swarm.
Plague drifts toward the equipment area, probably to triple-check his gear.
That leaves me and Whiskey, standing in the relative quiet of the tunnel entrance, surrounded by noise but somehow apart from it.
Whiskey shifts his weight.
Runs a hand through his damp hair.
Opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.
"Hey, uh." His voice is lower than usual. Almost nervous. "Can we talk? Just you and me? There's something I gotta—"
"Excuse me?"
A voice I don't recognize cuts through whatever Whiskey was about to say. Female. Professional. The wary tone of a reporter used to approaching difficult subjects.
I turn to find a woman in her thirties, press badge dangling from her neck, recorder held at the ready. Her eyes flick over my masked face.
And they linger.
Surprise that she's here at all roots me to the spot.
Reporters don't approach me.
Ever.
"I was hoping you could answer a question about the leaks," she continues, staring at me, through me, undeterred by my silence.
Behind her, Whiskey goes rigid. "Hey—"
I sign a sharp gesture—both hands rising, palms out, fingers spread, the universal what the fuck?
She doesn't seem to understand the sign, but she reads my body language well enough. "The leaks of your ID. Are they real?"
My blood turns to ice.
For a moment, I can't process what she's saying.
The words register individually—leaks, ID, real—but they refuse to form a coherent sentence. It's like my fucking brain has hit a wall and shattered against it.
ID.
Leaks.
My ID.
The one I showed at the clinic when I got Ivy's suppressant shot. The one where my face is visible because they required me to remove my mask for verification. The one that proves the monster everyone suspects is under this gaiter is real.
Real.
Are they real?
Are YOU real?
How are you even fucking human?
I don't answer.
I run.
My feet move before my brain catches up.
Away from the reporter.
Away from the tunnel.
Away from eyes and cameras and FUCK FUCK FUCK—
"Wraith!"
Whiskey's voice echoes behind me.
Heavy footsteps thunder in pursuit.
I don't stop.
Can't stop.
My lungs burn but not from exertion. From fucking panic. From the black fucking hole opening up in my chest, threatening to eat me alive.
My vision's going red.
FUCK. NO. NOT NOW—
I round a corner, slam through a door with my shoulder, find myself in some kind of storage area.
Equipment cases.
Spare sticks.
The smell of rubber and sweat.
I stop.
Brace my hands against a stack of cases.
Try to breathe.
I have to fucking calm down.
For Ivy.
Ivy needs me to be calm.
Ivy needs me to not lose my fucking mind.
The door bangs open behind me.
"Fuck, Wraith, I'm sorry—" Whiskey's voice is ragged. Guilty. "I didn't get a chance to explain. I've been trying to tell you, but there was never the right moment, and then the reporters—"
I spin around.
Sign the words sharp as blades.
TELL ME WHAT?
He flinches. Actually flinches, like my signing hands are weapons pointed at his throat.
"I was reading the fan chats again." He pulls out his phone, then stops. His thumb hovers over the screen, and he pauses again. "While I was in the shower. I saw... fuck, man, I don't know how to tell you this."
His hesitation makes it worse.
Makes whatever's on that phone a thousand times more terrifying.
So does the fact Whiskey jokes and laughs and makes everything lighter, even when it drives me fucking insane, but right now he looks like someone's ripping his heart out through his throat.
I grab his wrist.
Make him look at me.
SHOW. ME. NOW.
Whiskey's face crumples.
He turns the phone toward me.
The screen shows a photo.
My photo.
My driver's license, displayed in crystal-clear resolution from a scan for everyone to see.
My back hits the wall.
Don't even remember fucking moving.
I haven't seen my own face in years. Not since I learned to scuff every mirror, every window, every piece of metal that might throw back my reflection. Don't even risk going without my mask alone.
But now I can't look away.
The photo stares back at me.
Bright government lighting.
Neutral background.
It was a bad fucking day. ID bullshit is always a bad fucking day. My eyes—my father's eyes—look dead. Blank. Dissociated to get through it. The scar my mother gave me bisects my right eyebrow, cuts through the lid, drags down my cheek like a lightning strike.
But that's not the worst part.
Sharp teeth.
No lips to soften the horror.
No cheeks to hide the way my jaw muscles connect to skull. Just teeth and tissue like a demon corpse that crawled out of a fucking grave.
I look like every nightmare I've ever had about myself, except worse. Because nightmares fade when you wake up and this is real and everyone can see it now.
Ivy saw this.
Bile surges up my throat.
I'm going to be fucking sick.
"Wraith?" Whiskey asks.
Says something else.
Can't hear him over the ringing in my ears.
My legs give out.
I don't remember deciding to sit, but suddenly I'm on the floor, back against one of the equipment cases, knees drawn up to my chest.
My hands are shaking.
My whole body is shaking.
The gaiter feels like it's strangling me but I can't take it off, can't ever take it off, because now everyone knows what's underneath and Whiskey probably even fucking hates me now and they'll be looking and waiting and watching for any glimpse of—
"Hey. Hey, hey, hey." Whiskey crouches in front of me. He's holding something. A water bottle. Shoving it toward my face. "Drink this. You're gonna pass out. Drink the fucking water, Wraith."
I push his hand away with a low growl.
Don't want water.
Want Ivy.
Need her arms around me and her honeysuckle scent filling my lungs and her voice telling me it's okay, that she doesn't care what they're saying, that what I look like doesn't change anything even though I don't fucking understand how that can possibly be true, that I'm still hers no matter what.
My phone.
I can't text her.
Not safe.
But I can look at her texts.
My hands fumble for my pocket but they're shaking so badly the phone slips through my fingers, clattering to the concrete floor.
I reach for it.
Miss it.
Reach again.
My vision keeps blurring.
End up with palms planted on the ground.
I'm going to throw up right here in front of Whiskey and prove I'm exactly as pathetic as I look in that photo. A dead-eyed zombie too broken to handle seeing what everyone else now gets to see whenever they want.
Whiskey touches my shoulder.
Says something I can't hear over blood rushing.
Something about Ivy and breathe.
I whirl on him with a snarl.
Fall back against the concrete wall.
Snarl, curl in on myself, gripping my fucking head.
Want to fucking disappear.
Can't breathe.
Can't think.
Can't do anything except collapse on this cold concrete floor with my hands buried in my hair, fingers digging into my scalp hard enough to hurt, trying to anchor myself to something—anything—that isn't the spiraling horror of knowing the entire world knows what I am.
A wraith wearing the skin of a dead boy.