I look past her now.
Shapes are gathering at the edges of the room—tall, thin silhouettes bleeding in from the shadows like ink dropped in water. More of them. Dozens. Women in tattered lace, men with broken necks, children with empty eye sockets. They press closer, silent, watching.
“But damn…” I let the word hang. Let it cut. “I am done being treated like that.”
My eyes flick to the dresser.
Drogo’s gun rests there—matte black, heavy, the one he always leaves within reach when he knows I’m dressing alone. He never says why. He doesn’t have to.
I cross the room in three strides. My hand closes around the grip. Cold metal. Familiar weight.
I lift it.
Press the muzzle to my temple.
The barrel is still warm from when he checked it earlier.
The shadows tremble.
A low sound ripples through the room—not words, not wind. Something between a sigh and a scream held back. The shapes shift, overlap, argue in silence. Some lean forward asif to stop me. Others draw back like they’re afraid I’ll actually do it.
I don’t blink.
“I don’t mind joining you all,” I say quietly. The words taste like copper and truth. “If that’s what it takes to stop being your fucking scribe. Your punching bag. Your deadline.”
The gun doesn’t shake in my hand.
The ghost in front of me—the first one, the one with the mourning dress—lifts her black-tipped fingers toward me.Not to grab. Not to scratch.
Almost… pleading.
The room is so cold now my teeth ache.
But I don’t lower the gun.
I meet every pair of hollow eyes in the gathering dark.
“Your move,” I tell them.
And for the first time in my life, the dead don’t answer right away.
They just watch.
Waiting to see if I’m bluffing.
I’m not.
The gun stays pressed to my temple, steady, the metal biting into skin like a promise I’m ready to keep.
The first ghost—the woman in mourning black—freezes mid-reach. Her body jerks in strange, stuttering spasms, like film stuck on a broken reel. Her head twitches sideways, then back, eyes bulging wider, blacker. The other shapes around the room ripple in response, their edges fraying, limbs elongating then snapping short again.
They’re shaking. All of them.
Not fear, exactly. Something closer to panic.
I lower my voice until it’s almost gentle.
“Would you show me an ounce of respect?” I ask her, the words slow and clear. “Accept that I am your friend?”
