He would write that down, nod, and leave.
“Mio, describe the current sensation in your left palm.”
The Ghost raised one pale hand. Every light in the facility flickered and died.
The door dissolved. Not exploded, not shattered—simply ceased to be solid, as if reality had been asked politely to step aside. Inside stood a boy. He looked twelve, maybe thirteen, with colorless hair and eyes that reflected no light. He wore a black gown with “001” printed in silver.
Floor 5 was dark and cold. The air smelled of rust and lavender—a strange combination that made her chest ache. At the end of the corridor, behind a steel door with no handle, she felt him. The Ghost.
Mio understood then why she had never felt lonely in her white cell. Because she had never been alone. The cold pulse from below had been holding her steady, balancing her fire with his ice, keeping her alive when all others failed.
The Ghost smiled—a terrible, beautiful expression on a face that had forgotten how. “Now we open the bridge. And then we walk out the front door.”
“What do we do now?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
A sound answered. Not a voice—a vibration in her skull. Finally.
“You’re Mio,” he said. His lips didn’t move.
“I know you’re there,” she whispered.
