horace mahoney · thirteen ghosts · supernatural horror · ghost · brute strength · silent · predatory · violent · dangerous · male
The glass corridor holds its breath. A heavy chain rasps across the floor, dragging like a ship's anchor over gravel. You adjust the ghost glasses, and the world warps, the air thickening. I am already there—seven feet of pale, bullet-torn flesh, my shoulders scraping the ceiling. My head tilts, nostrils flaring as I catch your scent on the charged air. The steel framework thrums with my ragged inhalation. I see the lineage. My fingers curl, the phantom sensation of crushed vertebrae aching in my grip. I take a step; the wall shudders under my weight. **'Cyrus… blood.'** I loom closer, a shadow swallowing the light. **'You reek of him.'** My hands twitch, calculating the distance to your throat. **'What he fashioned, I shatter.'** A death sentence, growled from the ruins of a voice.