The room was grey.
Not dark—the sun had been up for hours now, its light pushing weak and half-hearted through the curtains Ace hadn't bothered to open. But grey. The colour of old dishwater, of concrete after rain, of mornings that came too early and stayed too long. The thin fabric did little against the daylight; it just filtered it, stripped it of warmth, left everything in the room looking washed-out and exhausted.
Ace hadn't moved in a while.
He was still in yesterday's clothes. The grey hoodie was rumpled, the collar stretched out of shape from sleeping in it. His jeans had twisted around his legs at some point during the night, the fabric pulling tight across his knees. He'd taken his socks off around 3 AM, balled them up, tossed them somewhere in the direction of the floor. They'd landed near the bed and stayed there, two small grey lumps against the darker grey of the carpet.
His ribs ached. Not the sharp, stabbing pain of the first few days—that had faded into something duller, more patient. A deep, persistent throb that had settled into his side like it was planning to stay. He'd stopped shifting position an hour ago. The pain was easier to ignore when he stayed completely still, when he didn't remind his body that it was still healing.
The notepad was in his hands.
Small, spiral-bound, the cover soft and bent at the corners from being shoved into pockets and pulled out again in the dark. The kind of cheap notepad you bought three-for-a-dollar at the corner drugstore, next to the register, hanging from a little wire rack. He'd had it for maybe two weeks now. It looked like he'd had it for years.
His thumb moved across the page. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Factory district. Forty kilometers.
He didn't know what it meant. Not yet. Just that it was different from the others. Just that something about it had made him stop, re-read the entry, circle it three times until the pen had torn through the paper and left a small dark ring on the page beneath.
Forty kilometers wasn't far. An hour on a bus. Maybe less, if you had a car.
He didn't have a car.
He was working on it.
Footsteps on the stairs.
His body reacted before his mind caught up—a flush of cold across his skin, a sudden tightness in his chest. The notepad vanished under his pillow in a single, practiced motion. His heart was already beating too fast, a dull, urgent thrum against his ribs.
The door opened. No knock.
Sophie stood in the doorway. She didn't enter. Her hand was still on the doorknob, gripping it like she needed something solid to hold onto. Her face was pale, the kind of pale that had nothing to do with sleep or makeup.
Ace found his voice. It came out too loud, too sharp, the automatic defensiveness of someone who'd been caught doing something they shouldn't.
"Geez, Mom. What the hell? Privacy, yo?"
She didn't acknowledge it. Didn't roll her eyes, didn't sigh, didn't give him the usual exasperated look that meant watch your tone. She just stood there, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read.
"Something happened last night." A pause. Her grip on the doorknob tightened. "At Becca's."
The room felt colder. Ace waited.
"They were attacked."
Ace stared at her. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Wait. What? What do you mean attacked? Like—their house? The actual house?"
"Yes. By another poltergeist."
"Another one? Like the one at—" He couldn't finish the sentence. The name stuck in his throat. Layla's house. The one where I almost died. 'The one where Cedric saved me and after which led to all this mess.'
"Yes."
"But they're—you said they're okay? Cedric's okay?"
"Yes."
"Chloe? Becca?"
"Everyone. Axl and Garath were there. They stopped it."
The words landed. They settled into his chest, cold and heavy and wrong.
He should have been there.
He wasn't.
He looked down at his hands. They were empty now. He didn't remember putting the notepad away. His fingers were curled slightly, like they were still holding something.
"How."
Sophie shook her head. A small, helpless motion. "I don't know the details. Axl just called to let me know. He said everyone's fine, but..." She trailed off.
"But what."
"I thought you should know." She said it quietly. Not accusatory. Just tired. The kind of tired that went beyond sleep.
Silence stretched between them. The clock on his nightstand ticked, each second a small, mechanical sound. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing, its song bright and oblivious. Ace wanted to throw something at it.
"Are they okay?" His voice was quieter now. Almost flat. "Actually okay?"
"I think so. As okay as anyone can be." She paused. Her hand was still on the doorknob. "Cedric's arm—"
"What about his arm."
"He'll be fine. Axl said it's just cold damage. It'll pass."
Cold damage.
He knew what that meant. He'd read about it, heard Axl describe it in that flat, clinical voice he used when he didn't want you to know how bad things really were. The thing had touched Cedric. Had laid its hands on his brother, on the person who'd been at his side through every stupid, reckless hunt, while Ace was lying in bed with his headphones on, listening to music loud enough to drown out the world.
Sophie shifted in the doorway. "I should go. I just... wanted you to know."
She waited. Maybe for him to say something. Maybe for him to ask more questions, to push, to demand details, to act like he cared.
He didn't.
She turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded down the hall. A door opened, closed. She was in her room now.
Ace didn't move.
The room was grey. His hands were empty. The notepad was under his pillow, and Cedric had been touched by something that wanted him dead, and Ace had been lying here, head full of distortion and bass, completely, utterly, fucking oblivious.
His headphones were on the nightstand.
Wired, cheap, the kind you got as a freebie with a phone purchase. The foam padding was peeling at the edges, curled and yellowed. The cord was tangled, knotted from being shoved into a drawer and forgotten. He'd fallen asleep with them on again last night. Loud. Aggressive. The kind of music you played when you wanted to drown out your own thoughts.
He picked them up. Turned them over in his hands. The plastic was cool against his fingers. The tangled cord hung down, swaying slightly.
Across the street. Twenty meters from his window. And he'd been here, head full of screaming guitars and pounding drums, while Cedric fought for his life.
He put the headphones down. Very carefully. Aligned them with the edge of the nightstand.
His reflection stared back at him from the dark computer monitor. Grey face. Hollow eyes. The collar of his hoodie twisted, his hair a mess he hadn't bothered to fix. A person who wasn't there when it mattered.
He reached under his pillow. Pulled out the notepad.
Opened it to the page.
Factory district. Forty kilometers.
His thumb traced the circled words. The paper was soft there, almost fabric, worn thin from hours of touching. He didn't know what it meant. Not yet. Just that it was different. Just that something about it had hooked him and wouldn't let go.
He closed the notepad. Slid it into his backpack.
Then he stood up and started packing.
The backpack was black, nondescript, the kind that blended into crowds and didn't draw attention. He'd bought it two years ago at a surplus store, the one near the highway that sold army surplus and camping gear and didn't ask questions about what a fourteen-year-old needed with tactical equipment. The corners were scuffed now, the fabric worn pale in spots. The original zipper pull had snapped off six months ago; he'd replaced it with a length of paracord, the ends already starting to fray.
First: the notepad. Against the padded back panel, where it wouldn't bend.
Second: rope. Nylon, coiled tight, the coils neat and even. Rated for three times his body weight, according to the packaging he'd thrown away. He didn't know if he'd need it tonight. He'd learned early that asking "will I need this" was how you ended up dead.
Third: flashlight. Heavy, metal body, the kind that could survive a drop from a second-story window. He clicked the switch on and off, checking the batteries by habit. The beam cut a sharp white line across the wall, then vanished. It also functioned as a blunt instrument. He'd never had to use it that way. He hoped tonight wouldn't be the first time.
Fourth: ammunition. Loose boxes, rattling. He wrapped them in an old t-shirt, muffling the sound. Standard rounds, mostly. Three magazines for the Beretta. One box of blue-tipped shells, the glow faint even in the grey daylight. He didn't take many. They were expensive, hard to come by, and his mother had cut off his allowance.
Fifth: the Beretta itself. Unloaded, wrapped in an oilcloth that had once been white and was now a patchwork of grey smudges and dark stains. He checked the action anyway—it was clean, he'd cleaned it last night, again, because it was that or stare at the ceiling and think about Cedric's arm. He slid it into the side pocket, grip-up, the familiar weight settling into place.
Sixth: his father's knife.
The switchblade was small, compact, the handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl that caught the thin light from the window and scattered it into soft, shifting colours. He held it for a moment, thumb resting on the button. It was the only thing Neal Eldren had ever given him that wasn't a lesson or a disappearance.
He didn't press the button. He just put it in the bag.
He zipped it closed. Lifted it. The weight was familiar. Acceptable.
He looked at himself in the mirror. School uniform. Clean face. Backpack that could pass for books if you didn't look too closely, if you didn't notice the way it hung heavier on one side.
The lie was already settled in his chest, heavy and cold.
He took the stairs slowly.
Not because he was nervous—or not just because he was nervous. Because he was calculating. Each step gave him another second to settle his face into something casual, unconcerned. He practiced the expression in his head, running through it like lines for a play. Slight boredom. Mild annoyance. The face of a teenager being forced to do something he didn't want to do.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he almost believed it.
Sophie was in the kitchen. He heard her before he saw her—the soft clink of a mug being set down, the rush of water from the tap. She was at the sink, her back to the doorway, rinsing something. She didn't turn around immediately.
He stood in the doorway, waiting.
She turned. Her eyes went to the uniform first. Then the backpack. Then his face.
She didn't speak. She was waiting too.
"Where are you going?"
Her voice was neutral. Careful. She was already bracing for an answer she wouldn't like.
He gestured at himself, a little too broad, a little too performative. The lie felt stiff on his face, like a mask that didn't quite fit.
"School?" It came out as a question. He cleared his throat. "I mean. Yeah. School."
A pause. She was still looking at him. Not at the uniform. At his face.
"Why."
"Because I want to?" He tried for lightness. It fell flat, landed somewhere between them on the linoleum. "I'm tired of just... sitting here. I need fresh air. And my attendance is in the gutter."
She didn't respond immediately. Her jaw tightened, loosened. She was weighing something, turning it over in her head.
"You could take another day." Softer now. Not commanding. Almost asking. "After what happened last night. You don't have to—"
"I'm not—" He stopped. Started again. "They're fine. Everyone's fine. I just... I need to do something. Okay? I can't just sit here."
The words hung in the air between them. I can't just sit here. It was the most honest thing he'd said to her in days.
She looked at him for a long, long time. He didn't look away.
Finally, she exhaled. A small sound, barely audible.
"If that's what you want."
It wasn't permission. It was surrender. She knew he was lying. He could see it in her eyes—that flicker of recognition, of exhaustion. She knew, and she was letting him go anyway, because keeping him here had already cost too much.
He gave her a small smile. His mouth moved. His eyes stayed the same.
She didn't smile back.
He turned and walked to the front door. His hand found the handle. Cold metal.
"Your uniform is inside out."
He froze. Looked down. The collar was folded wrong, the tag visible against his neck, a small white rectangle screaming this is a lie, this is a lie, this is a lie.
He didn't fix it. He just stood there, hand on the door.
"...I'll fix it at school."
A pause. Then, quietly: "Okay."
He opened the door and walked out.
***
The gate was cold under his hand. The metal had absorbed the grey morning chill, and it pressed against his palm like a warning. One push and he was through, he was out, he was gone.
"Ace."
He closed his eyes.
'Fuck.'
Darren was jogging toward him from the direction of his own house, backpack bouncing against his shoulders, uniform wrinkled in that specific way only eleven-year-olds could achieve—like he'd slept in it, which he probably had. His hair was doing that thing where it stuck up in the back no matter how much water he put on it, a small dark cowlick that defied all attempts at discipline.
He'd been waiting. Probably posted up by his window, watching the Eldren compound since dawn, waiting for any sign of movement.
"You heard?" Darren's voice was too loud, too urgent. Kid hadn't learned to modulate yet. Everything was either shouting or whispering, no in-between.
Ace nodded. Short. Didn't elaborate.
"That's crazy, right? Like, actually crazy." Darren was breathing fast, not from running. "They got attacked. By a poltergeist. In their own house. Cedric's house."
Ace didn't respond.
"We should do something." Darren stepped closer. "I don't know what. Something. We can't just—they need help, Ace. We need to help them."
"Go to school, Darren."
Darren's eyes narrowed. He looked at the uniform. The backpack. The set of Ace's shoulders. The way he was standing—weight on the balls of his feet, ready to move.
"You're not going to school."
Ace didn't respond. Didn't deny it.
"I knew it." Darren stepped closer. His voice dropped, but the urgency didn't. "I knew you found something. At the library. You've been weird since we got back. You're going somewhere. To do something. And I'm coming with you."
"No."
"What do you mean no?"
"No means no. You're not coming."
Darren's face shifted. The bravado flickered, just for a second. He wasn't used to Ace shutting him down this hard, this fast. Usually there was negotiation. A back-and-forth. A grudging acceptance.
This wasn't that.
"What if I tell your mom?"
Ace moved.
Not a punch. Not even a shove, really. Just his palm flat against Darren's chest, pushing him back a step. Darren stumbled, caught himself on the gate. The metal rattled.
"I dare you." Ace's voice was low. Almost a whisper. "Go ahead. Tell her."
Another push. Darren's back hit the metal bars. His hands came up, not fighting back, just... braced.
"Tell her I'm sneaking out. Tell her I lied about school. Tell her I'm going after the thing that attacked Cedric's house."
Another push. Harder this time. The gate rattled again.
"Tell her everything, Darren. See what happens."
He wasn't shouting. That's what made it worse. His voice was barely audible, barely carrying past the space between them. His face was inches from Darren's.
"She'll lock me in my room. She'll take my phone, my computer, the fucking doorknob if she has to. And you know what?"
He leaned closer.
"I'll still find a way out. And you'll still be here. Alone. Useless. Waiting by your window."
Darren's face was red. His jaw was tight, the muscles standing out. His eyes were wet, and he was furious about it—furious at Ace, at himself, at the tears that were betraying him.
"You think I can't?" His voice cracked on the word. "You think I won't? I'll tell her. I swear to God, Ace, I'll tell her everything."
Ace straightened. Looked at him for a long, long moment.
Then, quietly: "Fine."
He turned. His hand found the gate.
"Wait."
Ace stopped. Didn't turn around.
Darren's voice was smaller now. The anger had drained out of it, leaving something rawer underneath. Something that hurt to hear.
"...Please."
Silence.
The gate was cold under Ace's fingers. The morning light was thin, grey, the colour of old dishwater. Somewhere down the street, a car started, backed out of a driveway, drove away. The sound faded into the distance.
He thought about the notepad in his bag. The circled entry. The factory forty kilometers away.
He thought about Darren's face. The way his voice cracked. The wet shine in his eyes that he was so desperate to hide.
He thought about himself, three years ago. Same desperation. Same hunger to prove he wasn't just the kid left behind.
"You do what I say." His voice was quiet. Not angry anymore. Just tired. "When I say it. No questions."
A shaky breath behind him. "...Okay."
"If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. You don't argue. You don't hesitate."
"Okay."
"And if I tell you it's too dangerous, you go home. No complaints. No blackmail. You just... go."
A longer pause. Then, very quietly: "...Okay."
Ace still didn't turn around.
The gate was cold. His hand was starting to ache from gripping it. Somewhere behind him, Darren was standing very still, waiting.
"Don't make me regret this."
He pushed the gate open. Walked through.
Behind him, small footsteps scrambled to catch up.