The alarm's shriek was a metal spike driven into the warm, fuzzy depths of his sleep. Bradley groaned, a sound of pure protest, and slammed his palm down on the button with enough force to rattle the bedside table. Silence crashed back in, somehow louder than the noise.
He dragged his head from the pillow, his face creased from the fabric. Squinting through the gloom, he focused on the digital numbers burning red in the dark.
[9:00 PM.]
Now that was a fast nap. It felt like minutes, he thought, the remains of dreams clinging to him like cobwebs.
A soft, ethereal glow illuminated the space above his bed. Spirit Bradley hovered there, stretching his translucent arms as if he'd just woken from a long rest himself.
[Welcome back, sleeping princess,] his voice echoed, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. He finished with a wide, exaggerated yawn that showed no teeth.
"Can you even sleep? I thought spirits didn't need to," Bradley mumbled, rubbing the grit from his eyes with the heels of his hands.
[Yeah, for some reason, I can. I guess I'm just special.] The spirit drifted lower, his form shimmering. [Or maybe being tethered to your boring human life is finally catching up to me. All that existential dread is exhausting.]
Bradley just shook his head, a familiar, complicated feeling settling in his chest—a mix of resentment and a strange, dark affection for his other half. It was true; his life was a cycle of crushing boredom punctuated by violent, supernatural encounters. Most days, he was just a boy locked in a room, the walls pressing in, his own dark thoughts for company.
"I guess it's time." The words felt heavy. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool night air raising goosebumps on his skin. He fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp and flipped it. A warm, yellow pool of light pushed back the darkness, revealing his room.
His eyes immediately landed on a small table near the door. A neatly wrapped bundle sat there, looking out of place, with a crisp white note tucked underneath.
[Oh, Vuitton was here,] the Spirit noted, already gliding across the room without moving his legs.
Bradley padded over, the plush carpet soft under his bare feet. He picked up the note, recognizing the elegant, slightly hurried script instantly.
"I couldn't wake you; you were out cold. I brought your food and wrapped it tightly in cloth. It should still be warm when you wake up.
- Vuitton."
A genuine smile, small but real, touched Bradley's lips. "Thanks, Vuitton." Bradley really appreciated Vuitton, the butler was more than staff. He was the only family he had left after all. His parents were both orphans, so Bradley did not have any cousins, uncles, or grandparents. In this empty mansion, Vuitton's quiet care was the only warmth he knew.
He sat down and carefully unwrapped the cloth. The moment it loosened, the most wonderful smell hit him—the rich, smoky scent of perfectly charred meat, savory and hearty. His stomach, empty all day, growled a fierce, demanding rumble.
He pressed a hand to the container. It was still perfectly, wonderfully warm, the heat seeping into his palm and traveling up his arm, a small comfort against the night's chill.
His eyes widened as he looked inside. It was his absolute favorite, his weakness: thick slices of barbecued meat, glistening with a dark, sticky sauce, served over a fluffy mound of steaming white rice. On the side were a handful of crisp, golden fries and a tall, chilled glass of deep red berry juice, condensation beading on the outside.
"My favourite..." he whispered to himself. For a few minutes, the impending mission faded away, replaced by the simple, primal pleasure of a good meal.
He ate quickly, but he savored every bite. He focused on the textures—the crisp give of the fries, the tender pull of the meat, the softness of the rice. He let the flavors—smoky, salty, sweet—fill his senses, using them as an anchor to keep his mind from drifting toward the darkness that waited at the school.
After the last crumb was gone and the glass was empty, he leaned back in his chair, a deep, satisfied sigh escaping his lips. He felt full, grounded.
"Damn, that was good. I feel like I could take on a mountain right now."
[Yeah, you can't go fight a high-rank evil spirit on an empty stomach. That's just rookie behavior,] the Spirit remarked, floating nearby.
"Can't argue with that logic," Bradley agreed. He might have supernatural powers, but his body was still human. It needed fuel.
Nobody can fight hunger unless you are one of those xanxia cultivators who can go years without eating. Despite having supernatural abilities, he still needed to eat every day like a normal human.
He stood up, the heavy meal a comfortable weight in his stomach, and headed for the bathroom.
[You know you're not supposed to shower right after eating, right?] the other him chimed in.
"Nah, I'll be fine. I don't get sick." Bradley waved a dismissive hand and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door on any further spectral advice.
The warm water was a blessing, washing away the last remnants of sleep and the stale feeling of the day. He emerged minutes later feeling sharper, cleaner, more present. His skin was pink from the heat, his red hair dark with dampness.
He walked to his bed, the large four-poster that dominated the room, and knelt beside it. His fingers found a nearly invisible seam in the ornate wooden frame. He pressed a hidden button, and a section of the paneling retracted with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
Inside was his secret. Neatly arranged on hooks and shelves was his gear: form-fitting black tactical clothes, heavy, scuffed combat boots, a thin, flexible Kevlar vest, and the centerpiece—a katana in a sleek black sheath, its handle wrapped in a deep, royal purple silk.
"No matter how many times I see it, this looks so cool. Makes me feel like I'm some kind of superhero. Like Batman."
[You kind of are a superhero. I mean, you fight evil spirits that no one else can see,] Spirit Bradley said, drifting over to inspect the arsenal.
"You know I don't do it to save people," Bradley replied, his voice flat. "I do it because I'm hoping one of them will be strong enough to give me the death I can't give myself."
He stripped off his towel and began dressing with practiced, efficient movements. The tactical clothes hugged his lean frame, the material flexible but strong. He secured the Kevlar vest over his chest, then pulled a fresh, long-sleeved black thermal shirt over it. He laced the heavy boots tightly, the leather groaning in protest, ensuring a perfect, locked-in fit.
Finally, he shrugged into his long, midnight-black coat. It fell almost to his ankles, the heavy fabric swaying with a life of its own.
He stepped in front of the full-length mirror, picking up a comb from his dresser.
[I don't even know why you're bothering with that,] Spirit Bradley remarked, clicking his tongue. [It's all gonna be a mess of blood, sweat, and spirit gunk in an hour.]
"Gotta show the drip, y'know," Bradley said, carefully smoothing down his damp red hair. "Besides, if tonight is the night I finally die, I want to go out in style." He looked at his reflection—a pale, sharp-featured face with tired eyes, framed by fiery hair and clad head-to-toe in black. He looked like a ghost himself.
Will the world be kind enough to grant me the death I want?
He shook his head, a wry, bitter smirk twisting his lips. Unlikely.
He turned from the mirror. "Tsk, the face kinda ruins the whole 'emissary of death' vibe, but it is what it is."
Spirit Bradley just gave a silent, knowing shake of his head.
Bradley grabbed the katana. The weight was familiar, a comforting and deadly presence in his hand.
He attached the sheath to his belt, positioning the hilt perfectly for a lightning-fast draw.
"Time to kill an evil spirit."
He moved through the mansion's hallways like a shadow. The vast, opulent spaces were silent and empty, his new boots making no sound on the thick carpets. He felt like a ghost in his own home.
He turned left, opened a heavy, unmarked black door, and descended a narrow flight of concrete stairs into a chillier, damper air. He pushed through another door and stepped into absolute blackness.
The moment his foot touched the concrete floor, a series of motion-sensor lights flickered on with a soft click-click-click. They illuminated a cavernous space—a garage larger than most houses. And it was a museum of automotive dreams. Sleek, low-slung supercars sat beside polished vintage classics and hulking, raw-powered muscle cars. They were all perfectly maintained, lined up in silent rows like a mechanical army.
[Dad really loved his cars,] Spirit Bradley said, his voice softer now, touched with a wistful melancholy. [He'd spend whole weekends down here, just tinkering.]
"Yeah," Bradley whispered, the word catching in his throat. "He did." The memory was a sharp, sweet pain.
He walked slowly down the center aisle, his coat brushing against a gleaming fender. He paused beside one car in particular, a masterpiece of black paint and chrome.
"A 1967 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500," Bradley said, his voice full of reverence. "A absolute beast. That 7-litre V8 engine... the noise it made could shake the whole street. It was his favorite."
[...and one of the few real, tangible pieces of him we have left,] Spirit Bradley finished, his voice barely a whisper.
Bradley swallowed hard, forcing the emotion down. He had a job to do. He walked on, past the Mustang, to a shape hidden under a heavy black cloth in the far corner. He grabbed a corner of the fabric and yanked it off with a single, fluid motion.
Revealed underneath was a machine that looked less like transportation and more like a weapon. A motorcycle. A Kawasaki Ninja H2, painted a raven black with shocking, fluorescent green stripes that seemed to glow in the garage light.
Bradley let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"A Kawasaki Ninja H2," he recited, the specs coming to him as naturally as breathing. "Liquid-cooled, inline-four engine, force-fed by a supercharger. Pumps out about 231 horsepower, but with the RAM air intake, it can hit 243. A real terrifying princess."
He plucked the keys from a small hook on the wall.
He swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat. It felt like putting on a part of himself. He turned the ignition.
Vroom~
The engine roared to life, a high-pitched, mechanical scream that shattered the sacred silence of the garage. It was a sound of pure, untamed power. Bradley twisted the throttle with his right hand.
Vroom! Vroom! The engine snarled, eager and impatient.
"Alright, easy, girl," he cooed, patting the fuel tank. "Let's not wake up the whole neighborhood before we even leave."
He killed the engine, the sudden silence feeling heavier than before. He checked the mirrors, clicked the bike into gear, and rolled it silently out of the garage, pushing it across the smooth concrete.
He maneuvered it to the mansion's massive, wrought-iron front gates, pulling a key remote from his pocket. The gates groaned open slowly. The moment the gap was wide enough, he slipped through, kicked the bike back to life, and dropped the key in his pocket.
Then, he twisted the throttle all the way back.
VROOOOOOM!
The Ninja H2 launched forward like a bullet from a gun. The front wheel lifted clean off the asphalt, and Bradley held the bike in a perfect, controlled wheelie, the single headlight carving a path through the darkness. He tucked his body low behind the fairing, the wind screaming past his ears, a roaring, cleansing force.
"Here I come!" he yelled into the night, the words torn away by the speed.
---
The school materialized out of the darkness, its Gothic silhouette looming against the night sky. The trip that usually took an hour of stoplights and traffic had been devoured in a blistering fifteen-minute blast of pure speed on the deserted highway.
[I wonder what Dad would say about you driving like that at fifteen,] Spirit Bradley mused.
"He'd probably ground me for a year," Bradley chuckled, the sound thin in the cold air. "After he finished yelling."
He parked the bike just outside the main gates, the engine ticking as it cooled. He looked up at the stone walls. The security cameras were all destroyed—shattered, twisted on their mounts, or simply dark.
Looks fishy.
[She didn't just disable them,] the Spirit confirmed. [She made sure they couldn't see a thing. She's expecting company.]
Bradley took a few steps back, then ran forward and leaped, his enhanced strength carrying him effortlessly over the high, spiked gate. He landed in a crouch on the other side, his boots sinking silently into the thin layer of snow on the cobblestone path.
The school was unnaturally still. No night watchmen, no patrolling security. His breath misted in the frigid air. He moved to the guard post, a small brick hut by the gate, and peered through the window.
The two guards were inside, slumped over their desks. For a heart-stopping second, he thought they were dead. But then he saw it—the slow, steady rise and fall of their chests. They were alive, just in a magically induced sleep.
Bradley let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "They're breathing. They're okay."
He turned from the post and started down the main path, his boots making soft crunching sounds in the snow. The entire school felt wrong, like a predator holding its breath, waiting to strike. The darkness here was thicker, heavier than it should be.
[I can feel her now,] Spirit Bradley said, his voice a low, tense hum. [Her energy is everywhere. It's thick, like hot, oily smoke. It's suffocating.]
Bradley pushed open the school's main door, the hinges groaning softly. The interior was a landscape of deep shadows, lit only by slivers of moonlight slanting through the high windows. But to Bradley's spirit-touched sight, the air was stained with a sickly, pulsating red haze—the visible residue of pure malice.
With every step he took, the feeling of dread grew heavier. The evil energy pressed in on him from all sides.
And then a new scent cut through the cold air—sharp, metallic, and unmistakable.
The smell of fresh blood.
"Shit," Bradley muttered, his hand instinctively dropping to the black hilt of his katana. "I really, really hope Josh listened to me and went home early."
[Stay sharp,] Spirit Bradley warned, his form flickering with tension. [She's close. And she hasn't been idle.]
Bradley nodded, his jaw set. Then he broke into a run, a low, silent dash that carried him through the familiar corridors now turned into a haunted maze.
He skidded to a halt in front of the infirmary door. It was slightly open, a sliver of deeper blackness within the shadowy hall. The wood around the handle was stained a dark, wet color.
He pushed the door open slowly, his katana already half-drawn, the purple silk grip cool in his hand.
The room was empty. The beds were neatly made, the medical supplies orderly on their shelves. But the foul, cloying perfume of the spirit's presence hung in the air, so strong it was almost a physical thing.
"She's not here..." Bradley whispered, frustration tightening his chest.
[She's toying with us. Check the other rooms. Quickly.]
They moved from classroom to classroom, the empty spaces feeling more threatening than any monster. The silence was absolute, a smothering blanket that made the thump of his own heart sound like a drum. The building was a tomb.
"She likes playing games, huh?" Bradley's smirk was tight, without any real humor. "Fine. My turn."
"I'm using Spirit Sense. I can't search this whole place blind. We're wasting time."
[You should have done that the moment we stepped inside. Pride gets people killed, Bradley.]
Sybau, Bradley shot back mentally.
He closed his eyes, blocking out the oppressive darkness. He focused inward, on the well of power that lived inside him. He let his spirit energy expand, pushing it outward in a silent, invisible wave. It flowed through the hallways, seeping under doors and through walls, a net of perception spreading to cover the entire building.
At first, he felt nothing but the empty echoes of the school itself. But then, deep in the far wing, he found it. A concentrated knot of pure, freezing, chaotic evil. It was a vortex of hatred so powerful it sent a physical jolt through his system, a chill that started in his spine and spread to his fingertips.
This was no low-level phantom. This was something else entirely.
Bradley's eyes snapped open, now glowing with a faint, determined light.
"She's in the cafeteria," he said, his voice steady but cold. "And by the feel of that energy... she's a real problem."
[Then let's not keep the lady waiting,] Spirit Bradley replied, his form solidifying, a grim smile on his face. [Let's go find out just how much trouble we're in.]