I twisted his wrist slowly—painfully—listening to the ligaments strain like over-wound gears. His breath caught in his throat, a dry whimper clawing its way out. One more second and I could feel the bones shift under my grip like dice in a clenched fist.
"You think pain is power?" I whispered through Ziva's mouth. My voice was deeper now, laced with an energy that didn't belong to her. "Let me educate you."
I stepped forward and slammed my knee into his ribs. The thud was satisfying—like crushing wet wood. He staggered, coughed, tried to swing again with his free hand. I ducked, wrapped both arms around him, and flung him backwards into the nearest wall. The drywall split. A photo frame shattered as his head clipped the corner.
He groaned.
Pathetic.
I walked toward him slowly—measured, like a metronome counting down the final beats of his ego.
He raised a hand, pleading now. Good.
I kicked it aside.
"You raise your hand against the weak, against my assistant, and now you raise it to someone who could erase your existence before you even beg?" My voice echoed inside Ziva's skull, and I could feel her panic starting to rise. She wasn't used to this. She wasn't used to me.
"Aikio, stop!" Her voice broke through, faint but furious. "You're hurting him!"
"He tried to hurt you."
"That doesn't mean you can—this isn't justice, this is revenge!"
I drove my heel into the boy's stomach. He curled in on himself, sputtering. The taste of bile lingered in the air. She was screaming now, inside her own head, inside my head, clawing for control.
But she was too soft.
Too human.
Too new.
"Ziva," I said, calm, collected, still kneeling over the whimpering boy. "You said you wanted to change the mother. Fine. I gave you seven days. But this one—this boy—he's a branch grown from rot. He'll kill her one day. Or worse. I'm pruning him."
"I SAID STOP!"
Then—
A lurch.
A violent shove inside the hollow of the soul.
And I slipped.
Control was torn from my grip like wet silk in a storm. The world spun. My hands—her hands—trembled.
I stumbled back. The boy scrambled up and ran—limping, half-choking on his own fear.
Ziva collapsed to her knees, coughing, shaking, sweat beading on her brow.
I hovered there, not five feet from her, invisible, intangible, trapped.
"You can't just possess me!" she spat between heaves. "You can't use my body like it's some weapon for your rage!"
I looked down at her. No guilt. Just annoyance.
"You nearly got killed, woman."
"I was handling it!"
"You were about to get your skull cracked open. And I'd be stuck watching."
"That doesn't give you the right to turn me into… into you."
I shrugged, floating just at the edge of her presence, bound like a shadow.
"I didn't turn you into me. You just didn't know what to do. I did."
She glared at me, and for once, it wasn't awe or curiosity in her eyes. It was fury. "You're not a hero, Aikio. You're not even trying to be one. You're just a killer who calls himself executioner because it sounds better."
"I never claimed otherwise."
She turned away.
And I stayed right there—hovering, uninvited, unwelcome, and unashamed.
---
She slammed the door behind her, but I felt it like a whisper.
Not because it didn't shake the room—but because it couldn't move me.
I was already here. I'd always be here.
Blood streaked her arm, her temple, a smear on her chin she hadn't noticed yet. Her breathing was too fast, hands trembling as she leaned against the kitchen counter like she was trying not to break it—or herself.
"I need to change," she muttered, not looking at me.
I didn't respond.
She glanced up. "Aikio… go."
Go?
I could've laughed.
As if I could leave. As if I had that kind of mercy inside me.
"I can't," I said simply.
She swallowed hard. "Won't or can't?"
I tilted my head.
There was a difference. But not enough of one to matter.
"I'm bound to your body," I said. "And your soul. Where you go, I follow. Where you bleed, I linger."
Her lips tightened.
"You're in my head," she whispered, more to herself than me. "In my blood. In my damn walls."
I didn't answer that. Not because I disagreed—but because it was truer than she realized. And admitting it would only deepen the cracks in her voice.
"I need space," she tried again, more desperate now. "Please."
Space.
What a human thing to want. And such a cruel thing for her to ask—when I couldn't give it.
"I'll turn around," I offered, hovering still by the couch, arms folded.
She hesitated, then sighed. Her hands went to the hem of her ruined shirt, and she pulled it up slowly, flinching as dried blood tugged at her skin.
I didn't turn.
I couldn't.
I tried. Genuinely. Willed my body to move. But something in me—something deep, older than thought—refused. Not because of her body.
Because of what was inside her.
I was drawn to it. Addicted to it.
To her.
She stepped out of her pants, wincing. A nasty gash marked her side, right beneath the ribs. The kind of wound that should've needed stitches. But her body was already trying to heal it—because of me. Because I wouldn't let her die. Not yet.
Not until we finished what we started.
She looked at me. Not shy. Not embarrassed.
But defiant.
"Enjoy the view?" she asked, voice flat.
"I've seen worse," I replied.
"I've been worse," she muttered under her breath.
We both went quiet.
She wrapped a clean bandage around her ribs, then pulled a black shirt over her head. Her eyes were still damp, but not from tears.
No.
She wasn't the crying type.
This was sweat.
Fear.
And shame.
Not because of me.
But because she let me in. Because I fit.
She collapsed onto the bed, hair a mess, face half-shadowed by the dim light from the cracked bulb in the ceiling.
"You haunt me," she whispered.
I hovered a few feet above the ground.
"I am you," I replied.
---