Everything sharpens.
The room.
The angles.
The distance between us.
The sound of my own breathing.
“That’s right,” he says, smiling like this is some kind of reunion. “Don’t you fucking move, Benny.”
It is Paul. Alive. Here. Now.
Fucking Paul.
My stomach drops, but my mind doesn’t.
My mind goes cold.
Focused.
Dead calm.
“What are you doing here, Paul?” I breathe, because I need to hear it.
Need to confirm it. Need to anchor this insanity in something real.
He grins wider.
“You miss me, friend?”
My jaw tightens so hard it aches.
“You’re dead,” I say.
Because you were.
Because I mourned you.
Because I carried that shit around like a weight in my gut while everything else fell apart.
He laughs.
Actually fucking laughs.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what they told you, huh?”
Rage spikes.
Hot.
Violent.
But I lock it down.
Not now.
Not with a gun pointed at my chest.
