GENEVA
Unknown:Actions have consequences.
I stare down at the screen, my fingers tightening around my phone as I reread Ghost’s message. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I rise and begin pacing, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire, charged with anger. I could call my boss. Ishouldcall Allen and let him know Ghost has been sending these messages and that he’s threatening me now. But then I’d have to explain why I didn’t say anything when the texts first arrived, and… that’s a rabbit hole I’m not ready to dive into.
Besides, what’s the point? There’s no way Ghost can actually do anything. He’s locked up, behind bars where he belongs. Whatever power he thinks he has, whatever manipulation he’s trying to pull, it starts and stops with the phone.
I march into my bedroom, grab my gym bag, then my shoes and jacket. If Ghost thinks he can get in my head and make medoubt myself or make me too scared to leave my own apartment, he’s wrong.So fucking wrong.
As I step outside, the cool evening air hits my face, clearing my mind a bit. The city lights blur as I walk at a brisk pace. I need to move, to breathe, to get out of my head.
I retrieve my phone, tempted to text him back, to tell him exactly what I think of his threats. But I stop myself. That’s what he wants.
Instead, I slip the phone back into my pocket and keep walking, the weight of Ghost’s threat still lingering in the back of my mind. He’s just trying to scare me. He can’t do anything. He’s in prison. He can’t touch me.
The neon “24-Hour Gym” sign flickers against the black sky, its buzz low and constant as I push open the door. The space is mostly empty at this hour, just a few dedicated souls pounding away on the treadmills or lifting weights in the far corners. It’s quiet enough, and that’s what I need right now.
I move to the locker room, slipping into my workout gear. The familiar routine of pulling on leggings, lacing up my sneakers, and tying my hair back is calming.
Discipline. Order. Efficiency.
This is the only way to keep my life from falling apart. Every action pulls me a little further away from the chaos swirling inside my head. Away from Ghost’s words, his threats, his dark promises. I can’t control him, but I can control this.
I step out into the gym, the smell of rubber mats and disinfectant filling the air. I head straight for the punching bag in the corner, the one that’s seen better days, its leather worn and cracked.
I wrap my fingers, tightening the strips of cloth around myknuckles. The feeling of my hands protected and ready to fight soothes me.
The first punch lands with a satisfying thud against the bag. The force of it ripples through me, and I exhale, my breath a sharp hiss. I hit again, harder this time, the impact vibrating up my arm. With every strike, the tension in my body ebbs a bit more.
Ghost’s voice is still there in the back of my mind, taunting me. I slam my fist into the bag again, picturing his face—his smirk, that insufferable look that always says he knows something I don’t. The impact vibrates through my arms, sharp and satisfying.
My knuckles throb, the dull ache intensifying with every bit of forceful contact, but I don’t stop. The pain is good. It grounds me, gives me something tangible to focus on.
I hit harder, my breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as I push myself further. Sweat drips down my face, and the rhythmic sound of my fists colliding with the worn leather echoes around me. There’s no room for anything else in my mind but the bag, the burning in my muscles, and the steady throb in my hands.
For a moment I pause, resting against the wall, breathing hard as I wipe the sweat from my brow. The gym hums quietly, machines whirring in the background, but it’s mostly empty. Just a few stragglers on the treadmills who glance at me on occasion, their expressions wary.
Can they see the demon chasing me? Can they hear his voice?
I punch the bag again, then again, until my arms scream with exhaustion and my legs tremble. Only when I can barely stand do I finally stop, my breath ragged, my body spent.
I slowly unwind the wraps from my hands, wincing as the fabric peels away from my skin. I stare down at my knuckles, theskin cracked and bleeding. My body has taken punishment so my mind could be at peace.
The streets are quieter when I step back outside, the city deepening in repose. As I walk, I reach for my phone, half-expecting another message from Ghost. But the screen is blank. No taunts. No threats. Nothing.
A moment of peace? Or a calm before the storm?
I head home, each step slower than the last as the exhaustion creeps in. When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door and step inside, locking it behind me with a sense of relief.
This is one of the few times that being alone isn’t the worst thing.
I drop my keys on the counter and shrug off my jacket before jumping into the shower. After that, I throw on sweats and a t-shirt before collapsing onto my bed with a groan. The exhaustion is welcome, numbing the edges of my mind. Eventually, the dull hum of the city outside lulls me to sleep…
My phone chiming with a notification yanks me from repose. I groan, blindly reaching for it on the mattress. Once located, I squint at the screen, my fingers fumbling as I unlock the device.
The light is too bright, too harsh against the darkness of my bedroom, and it takes me a moment to read the words.
