《Final Moments [A LitRPG Mystery]》


 Chapter 1: The Art of Death

    The late November wind carried the scent of fallen leaves and cheap beer as I pulled up to Blakemore University''s most notorious frat house, Kappa Delta Kappa. The Red and gold banners declaring "Go Badgers!" drooped from second-story windows were legendary when I attended college here. The outdoor solar party lights still twinkled despite the pre-dawn darkness.


    My radio crackled. "All units be advised, powered individual spotted near Fifth and Main. Suspect described as flying... correction, attempting to fly by jumping off parked cars. Appears to be intoxicated and yelling ''I believe I can fly''"


    I clicked the radio off and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. Three a.m. calls were bad enough without R. Kelly''s greatest hits as accompaniment. At least the coffee in my "World''s Okayest Detective" mug hadn''t gone cold yet.


    Marcus waited on the frost-covered lawn, his crisp suit somehow immaculate even at this ungodly hour. His pocket notebook was already in hand, pen poised like a conductor ready for his orchestra.


    "Morning, Kay," he said, matching my trudge up the walkway. "Hope you didn''t have plans for breakfast. This one''s... artistic."


    I raised an eyebrow. Marcus''s use of words like "artistic" before sunrise was never good. "Define artistic."


    He shook his head, flipping through his notes. "Three victims, positioned like¡­ sculptures. Crime scene techs are calling it ''Frat Boy With a Pearl Earring.''"


    "Please tell me they''re not actually-"


    "Making art jokes? They''ve moved on to analyzing the killer''s use of negative space." Marcus''s mouth tightened. "It''s been a long night for some of them. Second murder tonight."


    This surprised me. ¡°Who got the first call?¡±


    ¡°Terry and Tom were up next on the board.¡±


    I smirked at this. ¡°T and T on the case. I hope it''s a hard one.¡±


    Marcus looked down at his notebook. ¡°You better hope. They are two solves ahead of us this month and I don''t think I can stand them gloating one more month.¡± He pauses and looks back at the front door of the frat house. ¡°This one won''t be easy¡­ but I know you can work your magic.¡±


    I flinched at the word ¡°magic,¡± but Marcus didn''t notice. Blue and red lights painted the white columns of Kappa Delta Kappa in alternating splashes of color. Through the windows, I could see forensics teams moving in careful patterns. Their camera flashes adding to the strobing effect.


    I took a final swig of coffee, straightened my jacket, and nodded to Marcus. Time to see what kind of masterpiece we were dealing with.


    The front door opened to silence. Not the expected silence of an empty house, but the artificial quiet of a staged scene. My boots squeaked against hardwood floors that shouldn''t have gleamed at three in the morning in a frat house.


    "Everything''s clean," Marcus muttered, running a finger along a spotless windowsill. "Like, ''mom''s coming to visit'' clean."


    The entrance hall stretched into the den, and memories hit me like a physical force. Eight years ago, I''d stumbled through these same rooms with Cass, dodging flying beer pong balls and navigating through crowds of sweaty students. Back then, the walls had been decorated with traffic signs of questionable origin.


    Now? The walls were pristine white, free of even thumbtack holes. No red cups littered the floor, no mysterious stains marked the carpet. Even the air smelled wrong ¨C antiseptic instead of the usual mixture of stale beer and axe body spray.


    The den opened up before us, and my breath caught. Three young men stood in a perfect triangle formation, their pale bodies almost luminescent under the harsh crime scene lights. Each posed like a classical statue ¨C one with arms raised skyward, another crouched as if preparing to run, the third with his head tilted back, arms spread wide.


    Their skin had taken on the grey-white sheen of marble, making the purple bruises and precise cuts across their torsos look almost like artistic flourishes. Each wore only plain white boxers, turning them into some twisted approximation of Greek statuary.


    Marcus flipped open his notebook, but I couldn''t look away from their faces. Three boys, probably juniors or seniors, frozen in a killer''s sick vision of art. The precision of their positioning made my skin crawl ¨C no ropes, no visible supports, yet they stood as if gravity had forgotten to claim them.


    Something about their poses tickled the back of my mind. The way their feet barely touched the ground, how their limbs held positions that should have collapsed under gravity. I''d seen this before, in a case file marked "unexplained" and buried in the archives. But mentioning that would only invite questions I couldn''t answer.


    Marcus circled the scene, his pen scratching against the paper. "No signs of struggle in the room itself. All three victims were killed elsewhere and arranged here." He paused, squinting at the crouched figure. "Time of death estimated between midnight and one AM is my guess."


    "Actually," a voice chirped from behind us, "I think it''s meant to represent the three stages of man." Officer Jamie Chen bounced on his heels, fresh-faced enthusiasm radiating off his rookie badge. "See how they''re positioned? It''s like that Picasso piece about-"


    "Chen," Marcus cut in, "unless Picasso left fingerprints, maybe focus on the perimeter sweep?"


    The front door''s hinges announced Dr. Harper''s arrival with a slow creak. He entered like a praying mantis in a lab coat - all angles and careful movements. The harsh crime scene lights caught the silver threading through his dark hair, creating a halo effect that didn''t match my impression of him. Eight months working together, and I still couldn''t shake the feeling that he enjoyed his job a little too much.


    Harper moved through the room like he was conducting a symphony of death, his long fingers tracing patterns in the air inches from each victim''s skin. The way he studied their poses reminded me of an art critic at a gallery opening, minus the wine glass and pretension.


    "Fascinating," he breathed, his pale gray eyes fixed on the muscular rigidity of the victim with raised arms. "The preservation of the poses is remarkable." He leaned in closer, his nose nearly touching the victim''s shoulder. "The bodies should have collapsed hours ago, yet here they stand, defying not just gravity but basic biology."


    His hand reached out, fingers extending toward the victim''s arm. Before he could make contact, Captain Briggs''s voice cut through the room like a steel blade.


    "Tell me this isn''t what I think it is." She stood in the doorway, radiating the kind of tension that made rookie officers suddenly remember urgent paperwork elsewhere. Her eyes locked onto the trio of victims, and her jaw clenched so tight I could practically hear her teeth grinding. "First the gallery downtown, now this? They''re getting bold, flaunting their powers right under our noses."


    Harper''s hand withdrew, and he straightened up, though he still towered over everyone in the room. "Captain, while there are certainly unusual elements-"


    "Unusual?" Briggs barked out a laugh that contained zero humor. "Doctor, I''ve been on the force for twenty-five years. The only thing that can hold bodies like this is something unnatural." She spat out the last word like it tasted bitter.


    I focused on my breathing, keeping my expression neutral¡ªjust another Tuesday in law enforcement.


    "Let''s stick to evidence," I said, proud of how steady my voice remained. "Dr. Harper, what else can you tell us about cause of death?"


    Harper circled the third victim ¨C the one with his head tilted back, arms spread wide. "Preliminary examination suggests asphyxiation." He pointed to the faint bruising around the victim''s throat, barely visible against the marble-white skin. "These marks here match a garrote or wire, but..." His frown deepened as he gestured to a series of precise cuts across the chest. "These wounds appear superficial, almost decorative, yet the blood patterns suggest they were made while the heart was still beating."


    He reached out to examine one of the cuts. The moment his latex-gloved finger made contact, all three bodies collapsed like marionettes with severed strings. The sickening thud of flesh hitting hardwood filled the room, followed by a wet rolling sound. The third victim''s head detached completely, spinning across the floor until it hit Marcus''s shoe.


    "Well." Harper straightened his glasses. "I suppose cause of death for this one is fairly obvious now. Decapitation." He pulled out his phone, thumb flying over the screen. "Though the clean severance suggests a powered ability rather than conventional means."


    "When can you start the autopsies?" I asked, trying to ignore how the head''s vacant eyes seemed to track my movement.


    "Not for a few days, I''m afraid." Harper sighed, still typing. "Budget cuts mean I''m flying solo in the morgue. And my shift ends in¡ª" he checked his watch "¡ªtwo hours. After that, I''m off until Monday. Unless..." He gestured at the bodies with his phone. "Our artist friend provides more material for study."


    The casual way he referred to potential future victims made my skin crawl, but I kept my expression neutral. At least his schedule meant the morgue would be empty tonight. Perfect timing for asking these victims some questions they couldn''t answer while alive.


    I forced myself to look at their faces again, knowing I''d be seeing them again soon ¨C under very different circumstances. The morgue would have answers that even Harper''s skilled hands couldn''t find. I just had to wait a few more hours to get them.


    ***


    Back at the station, I nursed my fourth coffee while pretending to study case files. The Homicide Division occupied the third floor''s west wing, a maze of desks separated by half-walls that did nothing to muffle the constant percussion of ringing phones and keyboard clicks. A collection of dead plants lined the window sills ¨C victims of too many double shifts and forgotten watering schedules.


    My computer screen reflected Marcus''s empty desk across from mine ¨C a meticulous workspace that made my cluttered corner look like a paper recycling explosion. His "World''s Most Thorough Detective" mug sat empty next to a stack of perfectly aligned notebooks. The clock on my desktop read 5:47 AM. Dr. Harper would be finishing his shift soon.


    I pulled up the morgue''s staff schedule, making a show of scrolling through unrelated reports whenever someone passed. Detective Terry Williams''s distinctive perfume ¨C a scent I''d dubbed "Eau de Too Much" ¨C wafted over my cubicle wall as she filed paperwork. Two desks over, Detective Tom Chen snored softly into his keyboard, still recovering from last night''s shift.


    The night shift was typically skeletal ¨C budget cuts had stripped us down quite a bit. The day shift had triple the detectives for keeping up appearances. But that ment that for another hour or so, this place would remain empty. Soon everyone would be completely away from the morgue. Away from the bodies. Away from any questions about why a homicide detective might be visiting after hours.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    My phone buzzed. Marcus''s text lit up the screen: "Neighbors heard nothing. College kids sleep like dead people." I winced at his choice of words. If he only knew what dead people were really like.


    On the bulletin board behind my desk, photos from our case fanned out like a twisted art gallery. The first thing I did when I arrived was print them off and get them on the board. Their faces joined the other faces of cases we had yet to solve this month, staring down at me while I pretended I couldn''t actually ask them who killed them.


    At 6:15, I watched Dr. Harper''s lanky frame cross the parking lot through my window. The morning sun caught his silver-streaked hair as he moved with that peculiar energy he always seemed to have. I waited another fifteen minutes, buying time in case he forgot something and came back.


    I gathered my things slowly, making a show of reviewing paperwork. Detective Williams walked past my desk, coat already on, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against the linoleum.


    "Calling it a day, Kay?"


    I forced a yawn. "Yeah. Can''t solve art crimes without beauty sleep."


    Not yet. But soon, I''d be having conversations with people who could.


    The sub basement always felt wrong on night shift. I always hated going down there. The fluorescent lights buzzed with a different tone. I stepped into the elevator, my footsteps echoing in the empty car. The doors closed with a cheerful ding that didn''t match the mood, and Cyndi Lauper''s "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" crackled through ancient speakers. Nothing like some 80s pop to accompany casual law breaking.


    Level B2: Morgue. The elevator announced it like it was just another floor, not the place where I broke several laws and risked everything I''d worked for. The halls stretched out empty and dim, emergency lights casting long shadows. My detective''s badge got me through two security doors, each beep of approval making my heart skip.


    The morgue itself lived up to every horror movie clich¨¦ ¨C cold metal surfaces, harsh lighting, and that underlying scent of industrial cleaners trying to mask what really happened here. Three gurneys waited, their occupants hidden under white sheets. A security camera blinked in the corner, its red light like an accusing eye.


    I moved through my usual routine. Disable the camera''s power supply ¨C maintenance issues happened all the time in old buildings. Lock the outer doors. Check the schedule again ¨CNo one was scheduled to be down here all day. Everything by the book, if the book was about how to commit felonies in a morgue.


    Standing between the gurneys, I closed my eyes and reached for that familiar spark inside me. The power that marked me as "unnatural" according to Captain Briggs pulsed beneath my skin, reaching out to the empty shells around me. Each body resonated differently ¨C like tuning forks set to various frequencies of death.


    The energy built slowly, a cool tingling in my fingertips that spread up my arms. In my mind''s eye, numbers flickered: Power Level 8, three charges available, revival duration 2.5 minutes. The detailed precision of my ability would have been funny if it wasn''t so terrifying.


    I pulled the metal clipboard from the end of the gurney and skimmed the details. James Morrison, twenty-five, artist. Found in the triangle formation, arms raised skyward like some kind of victory pose. Only he hadn''t won anything ¨C just earned himself a spot in my late-night interrogation lineup.


    According to the initial report, he''d recently sold his first major piece to the downtown gallery. The same gallery where T&T had caught their case earlier tonight. Not the kind of connection that would make my job easier.


    I set the clipboard aside and pulled the sheet back just enough to expose his chest. No wedding ring tan line, no significant scars, just the artistic array of cuts Dr. Harper had noted. The wounds formed a pattern I couldn''t quite decipher ¨C like a signature written in skin.


    Power stats display: Revival charge ready. Power Level 8. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    I pressed my palm against Morrison''s cold chest, channeling the spark within me. The interface in my mind flickered: Initiating Revival Protocol. Target locked. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    A jolt of energy coursed through my arm, and Morrison''s body arched upward. His eyes snapped open, and ¨C


    "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"


    "Shhhh!" I clapped my hand over his mouth, which only made him scream louder. My heart thundered as I glanced at the door. "Mr. Morrison, please, I''m trying to ¨C"


    "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"


    "I''m Detective Kay, I''m here to ¨C"


    "AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"


    Great. I got a screamer. Some souls come back like they''re waking up from a nap. Others... well.


    "Listen!" I whisper-shouted, trying to hold him down while he thrashed. "I have exactly ¨C" I checked my mental timer"¨C 30 seconds to ask you about your murder, and you''re spending it doing your best fire alarm impression!"


    He paused for a breath. Progress.


    "That''s better. Now, did you see who ¨C"


    "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"


    I slumped against the gurney as the timer hit zero and Morrison''s body went slack. The morgue''s silence felt deafening after his performance. Two and a half minutes of pure, uninterrupted screaming. At least I''d remembered to disable the security system this time. Last month''s "mysterious sounds from the morgue" investigation had been awkward enough.


    Revival charge 1 of 3 depleted. Power Level 8 stable.


    I straightened his sheet, muttering, "Thanks for nothing, James. Really stellar witness testimony there."


    One down, two to go. Hopefully the next one would form actual words instead of auditioning for a heavy metal band.


    I moved to the second gurney, double-checking the chart. David Smith, age twenty. His body had been the one crouched like a sprinter, ready for a race he''d never finish. When Dr. Harper had touched him earlier, his head had rolled across the floor like a bowling ball, coming to rest against Marcus''s foot. Now it sat perfectly realigned on his neck, a macabre jigsaw puzzle I''d have to disturb.


    The sheet rustled as I pulled it back. His skin held that grey-marble sheen all the victims shared, making the ligature marks around his neck stand out like a dark necklace. My fingers hovered over his chest. Bringing back someone who''d been decapitated was always... unpredictable.


    Power stats display: Revival charge ready. Power Level 8. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    The revival felt different this time ¨C less like static shock, more like dipping my hand in ice water. Smith''s eyes opened slowly, almost lazily, as if waking from a nap. His head stayed firmly in place, which was a relief.


    "Oh," he said, blinking at the ceiling. "This is different."


    I kept my voice low, conscious of how sound carried in the morgue. "Mr. Smith, I''m Detective Kay. You have about two minutes to help me understand what happened tonight."


    He turned his head ¨C carefully, as if somehow aware of its tenuous attachment ¨C and studied me with surprising clarity. "The party? We were waiting for the Chi Omega girls. Pre-gaming, you know?" He spoke like he was describing last weekend''s football game, not his own murder. "Then these weird lights started flashing outside. Bobby ¨C he''s kind of an idiot ¨C said it had to be one of those powered freaks messing around."


    I kept my expression neutral. "Did you see anyone?"


    "Nah, just the lights. Like a camera flash, but..." His brow furrowed. "Wrong somehow. Too bright. Too¡­" He turned his head slightly and he began to roll. I tried to stop him but before I could react, he rolled off the gurney and hit the floor with a splat.


    ¡°Ouch¡± he said with one eye looking up at me. Keeping one hand on his chest, I reached down and grabbed him by his hair and brought him eyelevel with me. Before I could say anything, his eyes widened suddenly, fixing on my hand still pressed against his chest and back to my face. "Wait. You''re doing this, aren''t you? You''re one of them!"


    "Focus, Mr. Smith. What happened after the lights?"


    His body jerked but death had left him weak. "Holy shit, they let one of you on the force? That''s ¨C that''s not right. You people are..¡±


    I let go of his chest, instantly sending him back to wherever he was. Smith''s eyes lolled to the side at an impossible angle. I carefully realigned his head with the body before pulling the sheet back up, trying not to think about how this particular interview had nearly gotten ahead of itself.


    Revival charge 2 of 3 depleted. Power Level 8 stable.


    I pulled the sheet back over him, trying to ignore how his last words echoed in my head. Another dead end ¨C literally. At least this one had given me something besides a headache.


    One more to go. Third time''s the charm, right?


    I moved to the last gurney, feeling the fatigue of two revivals weighing on me. The clipboard identified him as Ethan Price, graphic designer. He''d been the one with his head tilted back, arms spread wide.


    Power stats display: Final revival charge ready. Power Level 8. Duration: 2.5 minutes.


    My hand trembled slightly as I pressed it against his chest. Something felt different this time ¨C the energy didn''t flow so much as surge, like static building before a lightning strike.


    Initiating Revival Protocol. Congratulations, you have leveled up. Welcome to Level 9. Target locked.


    Price''s eyes opened, and to my surprise, he immediately propped himself up on his elbows, looking around with casual interest. "Nice place you''ve got here. Very... sterile. Though I''d suggest some throw pillows, maybe a houseplant."


    "I¨C" I blinked, thrown by his composure. "Mr. Price, I''m Detective Kay. I need to ask you about¨C"


    "My murder?" He rolled his shoulders like he was working out a kink. "Yeah, that was... unexpected.¡± He continued to look around the room. ¡°I dont¡­ really remember everything¡­ There was this shadow that moved wrong ¨C like it was crawling up the wallt. I remember thinking that wasn''t physically possible, and then..." He gestured at the wound at the center of his chest. "Well, you saw how that ended."


    "Did you see who¨C" I started, but Price cut me off.


    "Sorry, quick question ¨C aren''t I supposed to be, you know, dead? Because I''m feeling surprisingly not-dead right now. And your hand is kind of glowing."


    I yanked my hand back. The timer in my head was still at zero, I didn''t even think it started counting down, but Price was still talking. Still moving. Still... alive?


    "Oh god." I stumbled backward. "This isn''t ¨C you''re supposed to go back."


    "Back?" He sat up fully, touching his neck with a mixture of fascination and horror. "Back to being dead? Because I''ve got to say, I''m not really feeling that right now. Although..." He swung his legs over the side of the gurney, the sheet pooling around his waist. "Does this mean I''m alive, or..."


    System alert: New ability unlocked: Extended Revival. Warning: Duration unknown.


    "I don''t know," I whispered, staring at my still-glowing hand. "This has never happened before."


    Price grinned, though it looked a bit shaky. "Well, I guess that whole ''dead men tell no tales'' thing is out the window, huh?"


    I closed my eyes, calculating how many regulations I''d just broken by accidentally resurrecting someone. "I am so fired."


    A distant door slammed, followed by footsteps echoing through the morgue''s corridors. I froze, recognizing the rhythm of Detective Chen''s stride. What on earth is he doing down here?


    "We need to move. Now." I grabbed a set of scrubs from a supply cabinet and tossed them at Ethan. "Put these on."


    "You know," he said, fumbling with the pants, "when I imagined my dramatic return from death, I pictured something more dignified than mint green polyester."


    The footsteps grew closer. I yanked the privacy curtain around his gurney, my mind racing through evacuation routes. "Less fashion critique, more dressing."


    "Should I be concerned that I can still do basic things like, you know, breathe?" Ethan''s head popped around the curtain. "Also, these shoes are definitely not my size."


    "Right now, you should be concerned about not getting caught." I peeked out the door. The hallway stretched empty, but not for long. "We''ve got maybe two minutes before¨C"


    The overhead lights flickered. In the security monitor, a dark shape slid across the wall ¨C moving against the light like spilled ink flowing upward. I blinked, and it vanished.


    "Oh hey," Ethan said, stepping out in wrinkled scrubs. "That''s what I saw before the whole..." He looked down at hsi chest. "You know."


    The security door at the end of the hall beeped. I grabbed Ethan''s arm and pulled him toward the service elevator. "Time''s up. Walk like you belong here and don''t make eye contact with anyone."


    "Sure, just act natural. Because there''s nothing suspicious about a dead guy in scrubs being escorted out by a detective." He stumbled slightly. "Also, is it normal that my feet feel kind of tingly?"


    I jabbed the elevator button repeatedly. "I don''t exactly have a manual for this situation."


    As the doors slid open, I caught movement in the corner of my eye ¨C another shadow, writhing against the wall like a living thing. But when I turned to look, there was nothing there except the steady red blink of the security camera.


    "So," Ethan said as we stepped into the elevator, "does this make me a zombie? Because I have questions about my dietary requirements going forward."


    The elevator doors closed just as Dr. Chen''s keys jingled around the corner. I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "First rule of being undead ¨C no zombie jokes."


    "That''s fair." He paused. "What about ghost jokes?"


    I closed my eyes, mentally updating my career options. Prison guard. Mall security. Anything that didn''t involve resurrecting witnesses. "Let''s focus on getting out of here without being seen. Then we can discuss your new life as a technically-deceased person."


    "Looking forward to it." Ethan grinned, but I noticed his hands shaking slightly. "By the way, your hand is still glowing."


    I looked down. The power surge had left a faint blue shimmer beneath my skin, pulsing like a heartbeat ¨C a heart that shouldn''t be beating at all.


    What the hell had I done?

 Chapter 2: A Detective鈥檚 Guide to Undead Smuggling (Part 1)

    The elevator hummed its way up from the morgue, playing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" for the second time tonight. The universe, apparently, had a sense of humor about felony resurrection.


    I checked my watch. 6:45 AM. Early shift would trickle in soon, which meant navigating a recently-deceased witness through a building full of people trained to notice suspicious behavior. No pressure.


    "So," Ethan said, studying his reflection in the elevator''s brushed steel walls. "Do all dead people get this kind of VIP treatment, or am I special?"


    "You''re about to be specially caught if you don''t stop looking so..." I waved my hand at his general existence. "Dead-like."


    "Dead-like?" He attempted to smooth down his hair, which somehow made it worse. "I''m wearing scrubs. I look like every other exhausted medical professional."


    "Medical professionals generally don''t have that fresh-from-the-morgue glow. You are as white as a ghost"


    ¡°Oh, I see.¡± Ethan smirked. ¡°Only you get to make the ghost jokes.¡±


    I ignore his quip. ¡°This floor should be empty, we will go to the front of the building and head downstairs to avoid all the lookie-loos.¡± The elevator slowed. "Third floor. When these doors open, follow my lead and try to look... alive."


    "That''s hilarious, keep it up. You should do stand-up."


    The doors opened to reveal an empty hallway. Small mercies. I stepped out first, scanning for movement. The security camera above the elevator had a short blind spot during its sweep - a detail I''d learned during less felonious late nights at work.


    "Now," I whispered, pulling Ethan forward. He stumbled, his feet apparently still figuring out the whole walking thing. The linoleum squeaked under his borrowed shoes as we crept past the break room. Coffee scents wafted out - the good stuff someone splurged on, not the standard issue battery acid.


    The sound of heels clicking against linoleum echoed from around the corner. Williams. I''d know that purposeful stride anywhere. Without thinking, I grabbed Ethan''s arm and shoved him through the nearest door - right into the men''s bathroom. His surprised yelp bounced off the tiles as I followed him in.


    "Kay?" Williams''s laugh carried through the door. "Did you just push someone into the men''s room?"


    I closed my eyes, counting to three. When I opened them, Ethan was grinning like this was the best thing that had happened to him since, well, dying.


    "Just checking the..." I glanced around the bathroom desperately. "Paper towel levels. Very important. Budget meeting coming up."


    "At 6:45 in the morning?" Her voice dripped with amusement. "With company?"


    "I''m thorough." I pressed my back against the door, hearing Williams''s heels pause outside. "It''s why I made detective."


    "Uh-huh." The smirk in her voice was practically visible through the door. "Well, don''t let me interrupt your... inventory." Her heels resumed their clicking, followed by a laugh that promised this wasn''t the last I''d hear about it.


    I turned to Ethan, who had propped himself against a sink, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "You''re enjoying this way too much for a dead person."


    "Hey, if I have to be undead, at least it''s entertaining." He straightened up, then promptly slipped on the tile. I caught his arm before he could crack his newly-revived skull. "Though I have to ask - do you usually manhandle all your witnesses into bathrooms, or am I special?"Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    "Keep talking and I''ll manhandle you right back to the morgue."


    The men''s room door creaked open. I peeked out, half-expecting Williams to be waiting with a camera and a gossip column''s worth of questions. The hallway stretched empty except for the ever-watching security cameras.


    ¡°Ok,¡± I began, ¡°I¡¯m going to walk to my right, don¡¯t look left or you will look directly into a security camera,¡±


    Ethan nodded his head. ¡°Where is the next elevator?¡±


    ¡°Stairwell,¡± I correct him. ¡°No one takes the stairs here. So we go down two floors and we will be right by the front lobby.¡±


    I decided that we needed to move before more people made their way up here. I poke my head out the door, the coast seemed to be clear. ¡°When I leave, count to ten and then just follow me.¡±


    Without hesitation I walked out into the hall and headed to the right. The hall opened into a large room filled with cubicles. This is where I started my career, the Powered Unit. It used to be a gang unit, but decisions were made, and their focus turned to catching and dealing with those with abilities. I glanced around, no one was in sight. No easy catches for them today it seemed.


    I started towards the stairwell when I heard the bathroom door open and the shambling steps of my new friend. I looked back, and Ethan was coming towards me, grinning and giving a little wave as he entered the room.


    I motion for the stairs and wait for Ethan to catch up. Something about the way he was walking started to worry me. The last thing I need is him falling down the stairs and breaking all his bones. I wasn''t sure what would happen to him then, being already dead and all.


    Slowly, we make it down the stairs. Ethan surprised me as he made it down with little effort. We reached the first-floor door, and I let out a little sigh¡ªtime for phase two of my incredibly terrible plan.


    "Okay," I said, turning to Ethan. "The front desk is thirty seconds away. Walk out like you belong here. Like you''ve done it a thousand times."


    "Should I whistle? People who belong places whistle, right?"


    "People who belong places shut up and walk normally." I straightened his scrubs and then realized, to my horror, that they were on backward. "I''ll create a distraction at the desk. Just keep moving." I said, ignoring the scrubs.


    "What kind of distraction?" His grin returned. "More bathroom adventures?"


    "Out. Now." I pushed him into the hallway, keeping my movements casual for the cameras. Nothing suspicious here. Just a homicide detective shoving a dead guy toward the exit. Standard Thursday morning.


    We rounded the corner to the lobby. Frank, the morning security guard, hunched over his crossword puzzle. The cameras in this section captured every angle - no convenient blind spots to exploit. I''d have to rely on Frank''s notorious inability to multitask.


    I stepped ahead of Ethan, making sure my badge was visible. "Morning, Frank. Still stuck on seven across?"


    "Good morning, Detective Kay." He looked up, pencil tapping against the desk. "It''s a five-letter word for ''ghostly''. Been driving me crazy."


    "Eerie," Ethan muttered behind me as I winced at the sound of his voice.


    "That''s it!" Frank scribbled frantically. "Hey, you''re pretty good at these-"


    "Actually," I cut in, positioning myself to block Frank''s view as Ethan shuffled past. "I''ve got a real stumper from yesterday''s puzzle. Nine letters, ''thoroughly investigated''..."


    The lobby doors swished open and closed. A quick glance showed Ethan''s scrubs disappearing around the corner. I''d done it. I''d actually-


    "Morning, Kay."


    Marcus''s voice froze me mid-celebration. He stood in the doorway, his suit still pristine despite the hour, holding a case file I recognized from his desk.


    "That medical intern," he nodded toward where Ethan had vanished. "Friend of yours?"


    "Just dropping something off for Dr. Harper." The lie rolled off my tongue with practiced ease. Eight years of hiding powers made deception feel like muscle memory.


    "At this hour?"


    "You know how it is with the budget cuts. Everyone''s pulling double shifts." I glanced at my watch. "Speaking of which, I should head out. Train''s running soon and if I miss this one, it''ll be another thirty minutes."


    "Since when do you take the train?" Marcus''s brow furrowed.


    "Since my car decided to die on me last week." Another lie, but my Toyota''s check engine light had been flashing for months. It was practically pre-emptive honesty.


    "I could give you a ride-"


    "Thanks, but the station''s right on my way." I backed toward the door, waving to Frank. "Good luck with that crossword."


    The morning air hit my face as I pushed through the doors. Ethan waited across the street, partially hidden behind a newspaper stand. His morgue-pale skin stood out even in the grey morning light.


    I had successfully smuggled the undead out of a police station. They definitely hadn''t covered this scenario at the academy.

 Chapter 2: A Detective鈥檚 Guide to Undead Smuggling (Part 2)

    The morning crowd thickened around us as we approached the subway entrance. A sea of coffee cups and Bluetooth earpieces, everyone too focused on their phones to notice the dead guy walking among them. Almost everyone.


    "Left foot, then right," I muttered, guiding Ethan down the station steps. "And try not to look like you''re remembering how legs work."


    "You know," he whispered back, gripping the railing like it might run away, "they don''t exactly give you a manual for this. ''So You''ve Been Accidentally Resurrected'' wasn''t covered in my life skills class."


    A woman in a pressed business suit glanced up from her phone, frowning at Ethan''s jerky movements. I positioned myself between them, keeping my badge hidden but visible enough to discourage questions.


    "Just pretend you''re hungover," I said. "You''re wearing scrubs at 7 AM - everyone will assume you''re coming off a rough shift."


    "Speaking of..." Ethan paused at the bottom of the stairs, letting a group of teenagers rush past. "Are we going to talk about the whole bringing-me-back-to-life thing? Because I have questions. Many questions. Starting with why my feet feel like they''re full of Pop Rocks."


    I swiped my metro card twice, ushering him through the turnstile before he could draw more attention. The platform wasn''t crowded yet - small blessings of the early morning commute - but the surveillance cameras tracked our movement in slow sweeps.


    "Not here," I said, steering him toward the far end of the platform where the cameras had a blind spot. "Once we''re somewhere safe, I''ll explain everything."


    "Everything?" He raised an eyebrow, attempting to lean casually against a pillar and nearly missing it entirely. "Including why you, a cop, have illegal powers? Because that seems like a story worth-"


    "Keep your voice down." I scanned the platform, noting the security guard by the ticket booth. "And for the record, my name''s Katie. Detective Kay is for work. Work where, until about an hour ago, I had a perfect record of never accidentally resurrecting any witnesses."


    The approaching train''s vibrations rumbled through the platform. Ethan''s eyes widened as he grabbed the pillar for support.


    "Is this normal?" he asked, voice tight. "The whole... feeling everything more intensely thing?"


    I didn''t have an answer for that. None of my previous revivals had lasted long enough to report on the sensory experience. The train screamed into the station, and Ethan flinched at the noise.


    "Just stay close," I said, guiding him toward the least crowded car.


    The doors slid shut behind us, sealing us in with a handful of early commuters. None of them looked up from their phones as Ethan collapsed into the nearest seat, his borrowed scrubs crinkling against the plastic.


    "I don''t raise the dead," I said, keeping my voice low. "I temporarily revive them for questioning. Two and a half minutes, they answer some questions, then back to their eternal rest. Simple." I glanced at his very much alive form. "Usually."


    "Is that normal too?" He wiggled his fingersmy hand in my pocket. ¡°Because your hand was definitely glowing back there."


    I stared at my palm, where the faint blue shimmer still pulsed beneath the skin. Level 9. Whatever that meant.


    "That''s... new," I admitted. "Like the rest of this situation."


    Ethan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "So what you''re saying is, I''m your first zombie?"


    "Call yourself that again and I''ll push you onto the tracks."


    "Fine. Recently animated American?" Ethan shifted in his seat, the borrowed scrubs rustling. "Previously deceased pedestrian? Oh, I know - the walking formerly dead?"


    A businessman two seats over glanced up from his newspaper. I fixed him with my best ''nothing to see here'' detective stare until he retreated behind the sports section.


    "How about we stick with Ethan?" I kept my voice low, watching the tunnel lights flicker past. "And maybe save the existential crisis for somewhere less public?"You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    "Says the detective who just committed grand theft corpse." He rubbed his arms, frowning. "Is it always this cold on the subway? Or is this a... you know... thing?"


    I pressed my fingers against his wrist, careful to block the motion from other passengers. No pulse, but his skin felt room temperature. Not exactly alive, but definitely not dead-dead.


    "You''re the first person who''s stayed conscious past the time limit," I said. "Usually they just answer a few questions and..." I made a vague dropping motion with my hand.


    "Drop dead?" His lips twitched. "Sorry, couldn''t resist. But seriously, how long have you been able to-" he glanced at the businessman, who had lowered his paper again "-do your thing?"


    The train lurched around a curve. Ethan grabbed the seat in front of him, knuckles white. Every bump and vibration seemed to hit him harder, like his nerves were still figuring out how to process sensation.


    "Since I was sixteen," I said, watching his reaction. "My best friend''s dog got hit by a car. I was holding him, crying, and suddenly he was licking my face again. For exactly thirty seconds.¡±


    "Did he..." Ethan waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.


    "Stay alive? No. And before you ask, you''re my first human success story. If we can call this success."


    The train squealed to a stop. A wave of commuters flooded the car, forcing Ethan to scrunch closer to the window. His shoulder pressed against mine, unnaturally cool through the thin scrubs.


    "So what happens now?" he asked, voice barely audible above the crowd noise. "Because I''m guessing the police handbook doesn''t cover ''accidental resurrection of key witness.''"


    "First stop is finding you some real clothes," I said, eyeing a fresh coffee stain on his scrubs. "Then we visit a friend who might be able to help us figure this out."


    "A friend who knows about your..." Ethan wiggled his fingers again, this time accidentally smacking the businessman''s newspaper.


    "Sorry," I mouthed at the guy''s glare. To Ethan, I whispered, "Yes. And stop with the finger wiggling. You look like you''re casting a spell."


    "Well excuse me for not knowing the proper hand gestures for discussing illegal superpowers on public transit."


    The train rattled through three more stops. Commuters shuffled in and out, a constant dance of briefcases and backpacks. Ethan flinched each time the doors slammed, his fingers drumming an unsteady rhythm on his knee.


    "You still haven''t answered my question," he said during a quieter stretch. "About what happens now."


    I watched a transit cop pass our window on the platform. "Now we keep you hidden until I figure out how to undo this. Or until you..." I trailed off, not sure how to phrase ''return to being dead'' without attracting more attention.


    "Expire? Deactivate? Return to factory settings?"


    "Do you ever stop?"


    "Hey, gallows humor is all I''ve got right now. That and these lovely borrowed scrubs." He plucked at the fabric. "Which, by the way, still smell like morgue. Speaking of smells..." He leaned closer, sniffing. "Why can''t I smell anything? The coffee guy next to us spilled half his cup and nothing."


    I hadn''t considered that. "Your body''s probably still figuring things out. Like a computer rebooting."


    "Great. So I''m both dead and Windows 95." The train jerked, and he caught himself against the window. "With really terrible coordination. How many more stops?"


    "Four." I said while watching him somehow look even pailer.


    He pressed his hands against his chest. "Do I need to breathe? Because I just realized I haven''t been, and now I can''t stop thinking about it, and-"


    "Ethan." I cut him off as his voice rose. "You''re spiraling."


    "Right. Sorry. It''s just..." He lowered his voice again. "This is a lot to process. One minute I''m being murdered, the next I''m on the subway with a detective who raises-"


    I stepped on his foot. Hard.


    "Ow! Okay, message received. No Z-word." He rubbed his foot. "Though that proves I can still feel pain, so... progress?"


    Two more stops crawled by. The morning rush picked up, packing the car with people who didn''t notice - or politely ignored - Ethan''s occasional full-body shivers when someone brushed against him.


    "Our stop," I said as the train slowed. The flood of commuters had thinned to a trickle. "Try not to-"


    "Look dead, fall down, or make zombie jokes?" Ethan pushed himself up, wobbling slightly. "I''m learning."


    The platform lights flickered as we stepped off, casting weird shadows across the tile walls. A familiar blue glow caught my eye - my hand still pulsed with that strange light, a beacon announcing ''illegal powered person right here'' to anyone who looked close enough.


    I shoved my hand into my jacket pocket, mind racing through options. Gloves would work, but leather in summer would draw attention. Maybe I could grab some medical tape, wrap it up like an injury. Better than getting caught because I''d turned into a human nightlight.


    "You''re doing that thing again," Ethan said as we climbed the stairs. "That ''I''m totally not panicking'' face."


    "I don''t have a panic face."


    "You''ve made that exact expression six times since the morgue. I''m keeping count." He paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for an elderly woman to pass. The motion looked almost natural - his walking had improved, even if his timing still seemed slightly off. "So what''s wrong? Besides the obvious everything?"


    I pulled my hand from my pocket just enough to show him the glow. "New powers apparently come with mood lighting."


    "Cool. We could hit up some raves, you''d be a hit."


    "This isn''t funny."


    "No," he said, his grin fading. "But neither is any of this. So maybe we focus on getting me some clothes that don''t scream ''fresh from the morgue'' before we worry about your new career as a human glow stick?"


    I sighed, but he had a point. One problem at a time. And right now, the biggest problem was standing next to me in coffee-stained scrubs, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.


    The morning sun hit us as we emerged onto the street. Time to find some clothes, figure out this glowing hand situation, and hopefully not get arrested for grave robbery in the process.

 Chapter 3: Dead Man Walking (Barefoot)

    The morning sun glared off shop windows as Ethan and I emerged from the subway station. My eyes burned, it was so much brighter out now than when we entered the station, this is why I don''t work the day shift, hiding in the shadows is so much easier when there isn''t a fireball in the sky lighting everything up.


    I scanned the busy sidewalk, trying to chart our path through the commuters, shoppers, and early bird tourists already crowding the pavement. Cass''s bookshop was only six blocks away, but those six blocks suddenly felt like miles with my undead companion in tow.


    "I think I''m getting the hang of this," Ethan said, shuffling alongside me. His feet bulged in the ill-fitting morgue clogs. He scraped his feet along the concrete with each step.


    "Just try to stay upright." I caught his elbow as he wobbled, nearly colliding with a woman pushing a stroller. "And maybe don''t talk so much. Conserve your energy."


    "For what? It''s not like I''m going to run out of breath." Despite his unsteady gait, his grin was pure mischief.


    I shot him a look. "You know, for a dead guy, you''re surprisingly-"


    Movement near a shop window caught my eye. It was a man in a dark coat, he turned just as I looked his way, it looked almost like the business man on the subway. He lingered near a display of cell phones. Something seemed off, was he watching us?


    I grabbed Ethan''s arm and veered left, ignoring his surprised yelp. "This way. Shortcut."


    The alley squeezed between two brick buildings, narrow enough that we had to walk single file. Ethan tripped over a discarded soda can, the clang echoing off the close walls.


    "You know," he said, kicking the can aside, "you can tell me where we are going so you don''t have to yank me around so much."


    "Yeah, well, being tailed by Mystery Man back there isn''t great for the whole ''staying under the radar'' plan." I checked over my shoulder, but the alley''s entrance remained clear. No sign of our possible shadow.


    Ethan frowned. "You think we''re being followed?"


    "Not sure. But in my line of work, coincidences are usually anything but." Another glance back, still empty. "Let''s just keep moving. The quicker we get to Cass''s, the better."


    We rounded a corner, and I almost walked straight into Ethan''s back. He''d stopped short, staring down at his shoes. No, not his shoes - his feet, which were now his socks on the grimy pavement.


    "What are you doing?" I hissed, checking the alley again. "We need to-"


    "Walking, if were being followed, I want to be able to walk." He said, taking a slight step in just his socks. "Huh. That''s... actually better."


    I pinched the bridge of my nose, silently counting to five. "Ethan, I know this is all new to you, but we''re kind of in a situation here. Can we wait to get comfortable until we''re not potentially being stalked by an unknown creep?"


    He wiggled his toes against the dirty concrete. "Have you ever tried to walk in shoes two sizes too small? It''s like wearing bricks. Awkward, unbalanced bricks."


    "Well, unfortunately, Zombie Foot Locker isn''t open yet, so you''ll just have to deal with-"


    Voices drifted from the far end of the alley, accompanied by the clipped beats of multiple pairs of feet. I tensed, after the incident with Williams and the bathroom, the last thing I needed was to explain why I was lurking in an alley with a man in socks and scrubs.


    "Okay, new plan." I looked back and scooped up the abandoned clogs just behind me. I shoved them into my bag. "No shoes, no service. We''ll figure out the footwear situation once we''re not in imminent danger of discovery by the Boys in Blue."


    Ethan raised his eyebrows. "Aren''t you one of the Boys in Blue?"


    "Right now, I''m more like the Girl in Deep Trouble if anyone sees us. So move."


    The alley widened as we rounded the corner, revealing two electric vans parked behind a nondescript business. My gaze darted to the open rear doors, noting the scattered tools and spools of wire. Repair work, not suspicious in itself, but potential cover is we needed it.


    The slight sound of footsteps echoed from the adjoining alley, the pace seemed to quicken. My hand drifted toward my holster, a reflexive twitch I quickly stilled.


    "Under the van," I hissed, nudging Ethan toward the nearest vehicle. "Now."


    He balked, confusion and irritation warring on his too-pale face. "What? Why would I¡ª"


    "Just do it." The words left my mouth with an unexpected force, an authority I rarely used outside of interrogations.


    To my surprise, Ethan dropped to the pavement instantly, his body obeying even as his face contorted with reluctance. "Wait, no, I don''t want to¡ª" His protest faded to a muffled grunt as he shimmied beneath the van, the space barely accommodating his lanky frame.


    I followed suit, the asphalt cold and gritty against my palms. The chassis pressed down on us, a strange echo of the morgue''s metal tables. From one claustrophobic space to another, I thought wryly, settling next to Ethan in the cramped confines.


    "This is insane," he muttered, his voice reverberating oddly against the metal. "I''m not some kind of puppet, you can''t just¡ª"


    "Quiet." The command left my lips with a sharpness I hadn''t intended, an uncharacteristic burst of authority. Ethan''s jaw snapped shut mid-word, his eyes widening with a startling mix of shock and alarm. A muffled noise escaped his throat, confusion and indignation mingling in a strange harmony.


    Did I do that? The thought flickered through my mind, a match struck in the dark recesses of uncertainty. I''d given orders before, countless times in the line of duty, but never with such immediate, unquestioning results. Ethan stared at me, his expression a silent demand for answers I didn''t have.


    The crunch of footsteps pulled my attention back to the alley, a reminder of the pressing danger. I held up a hand, a silent order for stillness, and Ethan complied, his body going rigid beside me. Too rigid, a voice whispered in my head, too obedient. But I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.


    Polished brown loafers entered my field of vision, maddeningly familiar yet impossible to place with certainty. The businessman from the train? I wondered, but the memory slipped away, lost in the adrenaline of the moment. The shoes paused, as if considering the vans, then continued down the alley at a purposeful clip.


    I counted silently, marking the retreating steps, each one a tiny victory. Beside me, Ethan vibrated with tension, his breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts. He''s freaking out, I realized, a pang of guilt twisting in my chest. And I''m the one who made him like this.


    The footsteps faded, replaced by the distant hum of traffic, a mundane soundtrack to our bizarre predicament. I exhaled slowly, the tightness in my shoulders easing a fraction. "Okay, I think he''s gone. You can talk¡ª"Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Ethan coughed, his voice returning in a rush of jumbled words and gasping breaths. "What the hell was that? I couldn''t¡ªyou told me to¡ªit was like my brain just shut off!"


    I stared at him, realization and unease hitting me in my gut. "I... I don''t know. I didn''t mean to..." The words felt flimsy, inadequate in the face of his obvious distress. "We can figure it out later. Right now, we need to..."


    "Hey!" A gruff voice shattered the alley''s quiet, a jagged intrusion. "You better not be messing with my van!"


    Hands seized my ankles, dragging me unceremoniously from beneath the vehicle. I found myself blinking up at a scowling man in a utility jumpsuit, his face a thundercloud of suspicion.


    "This isn''t what it looks like," I began, raising my hands placatingly, a gesture I''d practiced a thousand times. Beside me, Ethan scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly, a newborn foal on unsteady legs.


    "Oh, really?" The electrician crossed beefy arms, his glare bouncing between us like a pinball. "Because it looks like you''re trying to boost my catalytic converter."


    I reached slowly for my badge, the movement deliberate and nonthreatening, a dance I knew by heart. "Detective Kay. We were just¡ª"


    "Hiding from a murderer," Ethan supplied helpfully, his voice a little too bright. "You know, as one does."


    The electrician''s eyebrows shot up, his scowl dissolving into bafflement, a transition I might have found amusing under different circumstances. I closed my eyes briefly, counting to three before fixing Ethan with a look that promised a detailed discussion of ''things we don''t say to civilians'' later.


    "We were pursuing a suspect," I said carefully, holding up my badge, a talisman of authority. "He seems to have given us the slip. You didn''t happen to see anyone else in the alley, did you?"


    The electrician frowned, his gaze flicking to the mouth of the alley, a brief consultation with his memory. "Nope. Been inside for the last twenty minutes, running cable. You two are the only ones I''ve seen."


    I nodded, sliding my badge back into my pocket, a familiar weight. "Thank you for your cooperation. We''ll just be on our way."


    The electrician grunted, his suspicion mellowing to a sort of wary curiosity, a look I''d seen a hundred times. "Yeah, well, next time maybe don''t go crawling under people''s vans without asking. Liable to get yourself hurt that way."


    "Duly noted." I grabbed Ethan''s elbow, steering him back toward the street, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty. "Come on, let''s go."


    And figure out what the hell just happened, I added silently, the thought a leaden weight in my mind. Before it happens again.


    They left the electrician shaking his head, his mutterings about "crazy cops" fading behind them as we hurried back to the main thoroughfare. I kept a firm grip on Ethan''s elbow, guiding him through the mid-morning crowd with a purposeful stride that discouraged eye contact. My mind raced, trying to process the implications of what had just happened in the alley. The way Ethan had obeyed my commands, the instant, unquestioning compliance¡ªit was both thrilling and terrifying.


    Did I do that? The question echoed in my thoughts, a whisper of doubt and possibility. I''d always known my abilities came with a price, but this¡ªthis felt like a step into uncharted territory. A power I hadn''t asked for and wasn''t sure I wanted.


    Beside me, Ethan walked in silence, his bare feet surprisingly nimble on the sun-warmed pavement. I could feel the tension radiating off him, the unspoken questions and fears that mirrored my own. What else was he capable of now? What else might _I_ be capable of making him do?


    "Katie," Ethan said softly, his voice barely audible above the street noise. "We need to talk about what happened back there."


    I glanced at him, taking in the worry lines etched around his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. He''s scared, I realized, a pang of guilt twisting in my chest. Scared of me. Of what I can do.


    "I know," I said, my own voice just as low. "But not here. Not now. We need to get to Cass''s place first, somewhere safe."


    Ethan nodded, a jerky bob of his head that conveyed his reluctance and acceptance in equal measure. "Okay. But we are going to talk about it. Whatever... this is." He gestured vaguely between us, encompassing the strange new bond that had formed when I''d brought him back.


    "We will," I promised, meaning it. "I just... I need some time to think. To figure out what it all means."


    We walked in silence for another block, each lost in our own thoughts. My mind spun with possibilities and implications, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on my shoulders. I''d brought Ethan back, and now I had to deal with the consequences, whatever they might be.


    One problem at a time, I told myself, focusing on the immediate task of reaching Cass''s shop. First, we get somewhere safe. Then we figure out the rest.


    But even as I formed the plan, I couldn''t quite shake the feeling that I was in over my head. That the choices I''d made, the powers I''d used, had set something in motion I couldn''t control.


    No going back now, I thought grimly, glancing at Ethan''s tense profile. For either of us.


    We rounded the corner, Cass''s shop front coming into view, and I let out a breath I hadn''t realized I''d been holding. Almost there. A few more steps, and we''d be off the streets, away from prying eyes and the threat of discovery.


    A few more steps, and maybe, just maybe, we could start to untangle the knots we''d tied ourselves in. The knots I''d tied us in, with my reckless use of a power I didn''t fully understand.


    One problem at a time, I reminded myself, reaching for the shop door. And right now, the problem is staying alive long enough to figure out the rest.


    The bell above the door jingled cheerfully as we stepped inside Cass''s bookstore, a jarring contrast to the tension thrumming through my veins. Cass looked up from the counter, her eyes widening as she took in our disheveled appearance¡ªEthan''s bare feet and wrinkled scrubs, my tight expression and white-knuckled grip on my bag.


    "Katie? What happened? Are you¡ª" Cass''s gaze darted to Ethan, a flicker of appreciation quickly replaced by concern. "Who''s your friend?"


    I sighed, exhaustion and relief battling for dominance. "Cass, meet Ethan. My latest resurrection."


    Ethan raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, his attempt at a charming smile coming out more like a grimace. "Hey. Nice to meet you. Sorry about the whole ''being dead'' thing."


    Cass blinked, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a moment. Then, with a shake of her head, she stepped out from behind the counter, her expression shifting into one of determination and barely concealed interest.


    "Is he single?" she pretended to whisper the question knowing it was anything but.


    I closed my eyes briefly, a headache blooming behind my temples. "He''s dead, Cass. Or was, until about an hour ago."


    Cass''s eyes widened, realization dawning. "Wait, you mean... I thought you were joking... but I thought you could only bring them back for a few seconds? This is..." She trailed off, her gaze flicking between Ethan and me, a silent question hanging in the air.


    I nodded, the motion feeling like it took more effort than it should. "It''s new. And complicated. Can we...?" I gestured toward the stairs, the promise of privacy and a place to sit down suddenly more appealing than anything.


    Cass nodded, her expression softening. "Of course. Come on up. I have a feeling this is going to be a long story."


    I let out a huff of laughter, the sound edged with a hint of hysteria. "You have no idea."


    As we followed Cass up the narrow staircase to her apartment, I felt a flicker of hope amid the chaos. With Cass''s help, maybe we could figure this out. Maybe we could find a way to undo what I''d done, to put Ethan back where he belonged.


    And if we can''t? A traitorous voice whispered in the back of my mind. If he''s stuck like this, stuck with you, forever?


    I pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the warmth of Cass''s hand on my arm, the solid presence of Ethan beside me. One problem at a time. One step at a time.


    The TV was on when we entered Cass''s cozy living room, the low murmur of voices providing a strange sense of normalcy. I sank onto the overstuffed couch, my legs suddenly feeling like they might give out at any moment.


    On the screen, a gorgeous reporter stood in front of a familiar building, her perfect hair and makeup a stark contrast to the flashing police lights behind her.


    "...no suspects at this time," she was saying, her voice a carefully practiced mix of concern and professionalism. "But sources say the murders appear to be connected to the art scene."


    I sat up straighter, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "That''s Megan Cho. She''s the best crime reporter in the city and the biggest thorn in our side."


    Ethan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "You think she knows something about our case?"


    I shook my head, my mind already racing ahead. "Not yet. But she''s convinced many of our male detectives to leak information... Hell, she''s got information out of me before."


    "How?" Ethan asked, not putting it all together.


    I motion toward the TV, "Just look at her!"


    Megan was just wrapping up her report with her killer smile. But before the report ended, I focused on the frat house behind Megan. There had to be something we missed.


    Cass frowned, her eyes flicking to Ethan. "And what about him?" She said, almost as if he were not in the room. "We can''t exactly hide a walking, talking dead man forever."


    I sighed, the weight of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders. "I know. But one problem at a time, right? First, we need to figure out what''s happening to me. To us."


    I glanced at Ethan, trying to gauge his reaction, but his expression was unreadable. A flicker of unease passed through me, a reminder of the strange new connection between us, the power I''d never asked for and didn''t fully understand.


    One problem at a time, I reminded myself, forcing my attention back to the TV. The reporters were now onto the latest traffic jam during the morning commute.


    I looked to Ethan who could barely look me in the eye. "We need to see what we can do, so what happened back there never happens again."


    My mind was made up, a argument in my head that I didn''t really put together was even happening until this moment was now settled. We needed to know how all this worked... before I do something that gets someone seriously hurt.

 Chapter 4: How to Train Your Zombie (Part 1)

    I pace across Cass''s worn floorboards, each step making my head throb. The sun streams through gauzy curtains, reminding me I should be either face-down in my bed or hunting a killer. Instead, I''m wearing a track in my best friend''s carpet while my recently resurrected witness channel-surfs on her couch.


    Ethan clicks through stations with mechanical precision, but his eyes keep darting to me when he thinks I''m not looking. The alleyway incident hangs between us like a lead weight.


    The electric kettle in the kitchen reaches its crescendo. Cass should be downstairs running her shop, not up here making tea for the undead. The thought of her losing business because of my mess adds another layer to my guilt sandwich.


    "I''m sorry," I blurt out, stopping mid-pace. "About the alley. About making you..." My hands flutter uselessly, trying to describe the indescribable.


    Ethan mutes the TV. "Make me your zombie puppet?"


    "What happened?" Cass emerges from the kitchen balancing three mugs. "You skipped that part between ''morgue escape'' and ''hiding at my place.''"


    I sink into an armchair, accepting a mug of what smells like Cass''s "special occasion" Earl Grey. "We were being followed. Maybe. Probably. I made him hide under a van."


    "She didn''t make me hide," Ethan corrects, his fingers drumming against his mug. "She commanded me. One second I''m standing there thinking ''no way am I crawling under that filthy van'' and the next..." He swallows hard. "It was like someone pulled my strings."


    Cass perches on the coffee table, her expression carefully neutral. "What did it feel like? Exactly?"


    "Like fog in my brain." Ethan stares into his tea. "But the worst part was when she told me to be quiet. My voice just... vanished. Not like I chose not to speak - like someone hit my mute button. I couldn''t make a sound if my life depended on it." He pauses, then adds, "Though I guess my life doesn''t really depend on anything anymore, does it?"


    "Don''t." I grip my mug tighter. "Don''t joke about that."


    "Why not? It''s literally the only thing keeping me from completely freaking out right now." His laugh holds an edge of hysteria. "That, and the fact that apparently I make an excellent ventriloquist dummy."


    Cass shoots me a look that clearly says ''fix this.'' But I don''t know how. I''ve spent eight years hiding my power to bring back the dead, and now I''ve somehow leveled up to full-on mind control? The universe has a sick sense of humor.


    I watch Ethan''s leg bounce up and down, each movement sending ripples through Cass''s ancient couch. My stomach churns. This kid didn''t sign up for any of this - he''s supposed to be worrying about deadlines and rent, not dealing with being my personal Lazarus project. But he''s also my only lead to whatever psycho turned his friends into modern art.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    "Do you remember anything else about that night?" Cass asks, her voice gentle in the way she usually reserves for skittish cats and first-time book buyers.


    Ethan''s leg keeps bouncing, like a nervous metronome counting down my rising guilt. "Just the lights, flashes of them, like in the old movies when their taking pictures. And that shadow..." His face scrunches. "It moved wrong, you know? Like, nothing was moving, but it did. After that..." He makes a popping sound with his mouth. "Game over."


    "I''m so sorry about your friends," Cass says.


    "Barely knew them, honestly. Just moved in last week." His shoulders lift in a jerky shrug. "But they seemed cool. Let me crash there when my lease ended early. I pledged and became official pretty quick. Better than some rando from Craigslist, right?" His laugh comes out hollow, leg still jittering like he''s had ten espressos.


    "Stop fidgeting," I snap, my nerves finally fraying.


    Ethan goes statue-still, his leg freezing mid-bounce. The silence that follows feels like a slap.


    "Oh god." My tea sloshes as I set it down too hard. "I didn''t mean to- I''m sorry, I wasn''t thinking-"


    "Well, this is fun." Ethan''s voice sounds forced-casual, but his eyes are wide. "Always wanted to know what it felt like to be a mannequin. Such an enriching afterlife experience."


    "Is it like before?" Cass asks, leaning forward. "In the alley?"


    "Identical." Ethan stares at his leg like it belongs to someone else. "I could try to move it all day - nothing''s happening until she gives the all-clear."


    I want to apologize again, but what''s the point? Sorry I accidentally turned you into my personal marionette doesn''t exactly cover it. Instead, I find myself saying, "You can move now," and immediately hate how much it sounds like a command rather than permission.


    Ethan''s leg resumes its nervous dance, but now there''s something deliberate about it, like he''s proving he can.


    Without a word Cass stands up and walks over to her coffee table. She lists one side slightly and begins to drag it. I stand and help Cass drag it across the hardwood floor, the legs squeaking in protest. "Want to tell me why we''re rearranging your furniture at-" I check my watch and remember I should have been asleep hours ago, "-whatever time it is?"


    "Because," Cass grunts, shoving an armchair against the wall, "you need to figure this out. Both of you do." She straightens, brushing dust from her hands. "How the commands work, what triggers them, if there''s a range limit - all of it."


    "Like psychic guinea pig trials?" Ethan pipes up from the couch. "Should I be charging hourly for this?"


    I shoot him a look. "You''re dead. Your billing days are over."


    "Rude. I prefer ''financially challenged due to mortality complications.''"


    Cass puts her hands on her hips and looks around at the extra space in the living room. "This should help give you both some room." She then looks me in the eye. "Make sure you get a handle on this, if something happens out there and some shadow is coming for others, the last thing you need is making a mistake with this ability and getting yourself in trouble..." She pauses, not saying what I know what she''s thinking. I cant bring myself back to life.


    Cass starts toward the stairs, pausing to point at us both like we''re misbehaving students. "Keep it down up here. These walls are thinner than my profit margins, and I really don''t need Mrs. Chen next door spreading rumors about zombie fight club."


    "Hey!" Ethan calls after her. "How come you get to make the zombie jokes?"


    "Because it''s my bookstore," she tosses back, already halfway down. "And I''m not the one who spent the morning as a human puppet."


    The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with my accidental resurrection and a growing sense that this is either going to go very right or spectacularly wrong. Knowing my luck, probably the latter.


    "So," Ethan says, his forced cheerfulness not quite hiding the nervous edge in his voice. "Should I stretch first? Do some warm-up exercises? I don''t want to pull my hamstring."


    I close my eyes and count to ten. It''s going to be a long morning.

 Chapter 4: How to Train Your Zombie (Part 2)

    I rub my temples, trying to think like a scientist instead of a cop who''s broken at least six laws in the last two hours. "Okay, let''s start simple. Stand up."


    Ethan rises from the couch like someone yanked him up by invisible strings. "Whoa. That was... direct."


    "Sit down."


    He drops back onto the cushions. "You know, a please wouldn''t kill you. Again, in my case."


    "Walk to the window."


    His movements are smooth but mechanical as he crosses the room. "I feel like one of those wind-up toys. You know, the ones that-" He bumps into the wall next to the window. "Ow. Specific destination required, apparently."


    "Sorry." I wince. "Walk to the window between the blue curtains."


    This time he makes it without incident. "Much better. Though now I''m just staring at Mrs. Chen''s cat in the alley. He''s judging me. I can tell."


    I try something vaguer. "Move around."


    Ethan stays put, examining his hands. "That one didn''t take. Too general, maybe? Or my undead brain needs more precise instructions, like those old computer games. ''You are likely to be eaten by a grue.''"


    "Jump."


    He launches straight up, hitting his head on the ceiling with a thud. "Ow! Again!"


    "Hop."


    His face contorts in confusion as his body starts bouncing up and down like a demented pogo stick. "This- is- not- what- I- meant- by- exercise!" Each word punctuated by another hop.


    "Oh god, stop hopping!"


    He freezes mid-bounce, somehow managing to look both relieved and annoyed. "You know, for someone who claims to feel bad about the whole mind control thing, you''re having way too much fun with this."


    "I am not." But I can feel my lips twitching.


    "You''re smirking! I saw that! Here I am, your personal jumping jack-in-the-box, and you''re-" He catches himself mid-rant. "Wait. That wasn''t a command, but I''m talking freely."


    Downstairs we can hear Cass shouting something about only being gone for two minutes and you both are being very loud.


    I lean against the wall, considering the problem and ignoring Cass. "So casual conversation doesn''t trigger it. Has to be an actual order."


    "Fascinating." His tone suggests it''s anything but. "Can we maybe try commands that don''t involve potential concussions?"


    "Dance," I say, partly out of curiosity and partly because his sarcasm is getting on my nerves.


    Nothing happens.


    "Too vague again?" I try to be more specific. "Do the chicken dance."


    Ethan''s arms immediately form wings as he starts clucking and spinning. His expression is pure murder, which only makes the whole thing funnier. "I hate you so much right now."


    "You''re good," I say, and Ethan stops mid-chicken dance, looking like he''s considering whether the sweet release of death might be preferable to more of my commands.


    Time to test something more complex. "Make me a bologna sandwich."


    "Oh, this is where I draw the line." But his body''s already moving toward Cass''s kitchen. "First the dancing, now food service? Death was supposed to free me from customer service jobs."


    I follow him, watching as his hands move with precise efficiency - opening the fridge, gathering ingredients. There''s something unsettling about how smoothly he operates, like a cooking show on fast-forward.


    "Can you feel everything you''re doing?" I ask as he spreads mayo on bread with perfect technique.


    "Every excruciating moment." He layers bologna and cheese with mechanical precision. "It''s like being a backseat driver in my own body. I can commentate all I want, but the wheel''s locked."The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "Try to stop. Really try."


    His hands continue assembling the sandwich while his face scrunches with effort. "Nope. Nothing. I could recite the entire script of Die Hard right now, but I couldn''t stop making this sandwich if my life- well, you know."


    "The mayo''s a little thick," I point out, testing if casual criticism affects the command.


    "Take it up with my puppet master." He adds lettuce with a flourish. "Though I have to say, for a dead guy, my sandwich-making game is still pretty solid. Gordon Ramsay would be proud. Or horrified. Probably horrified."


    "Can you at least slow down?"


    "Only if you command it, oh mighty sandwich overlord." He plates the finished product with a theatrical bow. "Order up. Would you like fries with your violation of free will?"


    I stare at the perfectly assembled sandwich. It looks better than anything I''ve made for myself in months. "This is actually kind of impressive."


    "Thanks. I''m definitely adding ''posthumous sous chef'' to my resume."


    ***


    I haul Cass''s body pillow into the living room, trying not to focus on the anime character printed on the case - some spiky-haired hero whose wide eyes seem to judge my life choices. The stuffed form flops awkwardly as I wrestle it onto a wooden chair.


    Ethan sprawls on the couch, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. "Please tell me this isn''t turning into some weird seance with a body pillow."


    "Meet our test dummy." I adjust the pillow''s posture, propping it to sit upright. "We need to see how physical commands work."


    "Oh, in that case..." He sits up straighter. "I''m calling him Derek Martinez. Menace of fourth period lunch, stealer of Twinkies, and eventual step-cousin by marriage. Which, let me tell you, made Thanksgiving super awkward."


    My phone vibrates - Marcus''s name lighting up the screen. Again. I silence it, stomach churning. This needs my complete attention. "Attack the pillow."


    The change hits like a thunderclap. One second Ethan''s slouching with his usual smirk, the next... something else wears his face. His eyes flood crimson, like someone''s pouring blood into water. The sound that tears from his throat isn''t human - it''s prehistoric, primal, the kind of noise that would send cavemen scrambling for higher ground.


    He moves too fast, my brain barely registering the blur before he hits "Derek." His fingers - oh Jesus, they''re stretching, lengthening into curved talons that rip through fabric like wet paper. White stuffing explodes into the air, drifting down like toxic snow as he rides the chair to the ground.


    I try to speak but my voice sticks somewhere between my brain and mouth. This isn''t happening. This can''t be happening. But it is - Ethan''s tearing into the pillow with teeth that definitely weren''t that sharp five seconds ago, shredding and biting with a savagery that turns my legs to concrete.


    The door slams open. "For the love of- I can''t leave you two alone for five minutes without-"


    Cass''s voice cuts through my paralysis just as Ethan''s head snaps up. His face... god, his face. The bones seem wrong under the skin, shifted into something predatory. Those red eyes lock onto Cass with the kind of focus usually reserved for Nature Channel documentaries right before something gets eaten.


    He coils, muscles bunching in ways that human anatomy definitely doesn''t allow, and my voice finally breaks free.


    "STOP!"


    The word cracks like a whip. Ethan freezes mid-spring, suspended in that impossible position for one heartbeat before collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. The red drains from his eyes, leaving them wide and horrified as he stares at his hands - human again, thank god - then at the carnage around him.


    "I..." His voice cracks. "What did... did you make me..." He looks up at me, face pale beneath the grey undertones of death. "What am I?"


    Cass slides down the doorframe until she''s sitting, legs apparently giving out. "Well," she says faintly, brushing a piece of stuffing from her hair. "I guess we can scratch ''totally harmless'' off the resurrection bingo card."


    Pillow stuffing continues to drift down around us like snow in hell, and I realize with crystal clarity that I am in way, way over my head.


    I stare at the wreckage of Cass''s living room, cotton stuffing settling like fresh crime scene debris. My phone buzzes again - the seventh text from Marcus in two minutes. This time I look.


    <i>Where are you?</i>


    <i>Answer your damn phone Kay</i>


    <i>Seriously, call me ASAP</i>


    <i>Detectives at your place</i>


    <i>Door''s kicked in</i>


    <i>Place is trashed</i>


    <i>Need to know you''re ok</i>


    "No, no, no." The words tumble out as I scroll faster. Each message gets worse.


    "What''s wrong?" Ethan asks. He''s still on the floor, looking smaller somehow, more human. The memory of those red eyes and stretched limbs feels like a fever dream, except for all the evidence scattered around us.


    "Someone broke into my apartment." My fingers shake as I type a quick  I''m fine, on my way to Marcus. "Daytime detectives are there doing a ''welfare check.''"


    Cass picks herself up from the doorframe. "That''s not a coincidence."


    "You think?" My mind races through possibilities, each worse than the last. "Someone knows¡­¡± I look to Ethan, ¡°Something¡­¡± I wave my hand at Ethan, who''s now picking stuffing out of his hair.


    "Go," Cass says. "I''ll handle things here."


    I grab my jacket, then hesitate. The words "Stay here" form on my tongue, but I catch them before they become a command. The memory of Ethan''s face when he realized what I''d made him do to that pillow stops me cold.


    Instead, I swallow hard and say, "Please stay here? Where it''s safe?"


    Something shifts in his expression - relief, maybe, or gratitude. "Yeah. Not like I can go job hunting looking like death warmed over anyway." He manages a weak smile. "Plus, someone needs to help clean up Derek 2.0 here."


    I''m halfway down the stairs when I hear him call after me: "Try not to resurrect anyone else while you''re out!"


    "Try not to eat any more pillows!" I shout back, but my laugh catches in my throat. Because now I know exactly what Ethan''s capable of under my commands, and that knowledge sits in my stomach like lead.


    The morning sun hits my face as I step outside, and I realize I have no idea what I''m walking into. But one thing''s certain - whoever broke into my apartment wasn''t looking for my spare key.


    They were looking for proof.