---
I floated. Again.
Same five feet. Same invisible leash. Same woman with too much hope and not enough pain.
Ziva marched ahead, chin high like she was about to make history. Again. I'd seen this movie yesterday—hope, words, disappointment—and I had a front-row seat, because I couldn't go anywhere else.
The sun was merciless. So was the smell. Same neighborhood, same rust-colored walls, same house that felt more like a den of emotional decay.
She knocked—three times, like she was summoning patience itself.
I hovered behind her like a chained poltergeist. Silent. Watching. Judging.
The door creaked open. The woman—the mother—glared at Ziva like she was gum stuck to the bottom of fate's boot.
"What now?" the woman spat, cigarette dangling, half-dressed in bitterness and yesterday's regrets.
"I just want to talk," Ziva said gently. "That's all. Just talk. About your son."
Her voice trembled. Still soft, but more strained than yesterday. Good. She was cracking. Finally realizing words weren't weapons. Not here.
I snorted. Loud enough for Ziva to hear, not her.
She tensed. "Stop it," she muttered under her breath, not turning to me.
I floated closer—well, as close as the tether allowed. "Go ahead," I whispered mockingly. "Maybe your fourth heartfelt speech will be the one that unlocks her hidden humanity."
She ignored me. Admirable. But stupid.
Ziva stepped into the living room, and I glided in behind her, invisible to the woman, but very real to Ziva's nerves. I could feel her shoulders tighten.
The place was a mess. Clothes everywhere. Broken dishes. The air tasted like resentment.
Ziva sat on the edge of the couch like it might bite her. "I know you've been through a lot," she started again, gentle. "I just think... maybe your son deserves a mother who can try."
The woman scoffed. "You don't know me."
"No," Ziva said. "But I know pain. I've felt it. And I know that hurting others doesn't erase our own."
For a second—just one—I saw something flicker behind the woman's eyes. Not warmth. Not yet. But not hate either.
"Get out," she said. Softly. Almost like a whisper.
Ziva leaned forward. "Please. Let me help—"
"I said get out!"
Ziva flinched as the woman stood, grabbing a broken glass from the table like she meant to use it. Her hands shook, but her rage didn't.
Ziva backed out, slowly. And I followed.
The door slammed behind us. Another failure.
Outside, Ziva slumped against the wall. Her shoulders shook, but she didn't cry.
"You almost had her," I said, hovering just behind her. "I mean, if we were rating it, that was a solid 6.3 out of 10. Bravo."
She glared at me. "I don't need your commentary."
"No," I agreed. "You need a miracle. Or a crowbar."
She closed her eyes. Breathed. Swallowed pain like it was medicine.
"She almost listened," Ziva muttered.
"Almost." I floated above her head. "You think you're changing her, but you're not. You're walking barefoot through broken glass, hoping the shards become feathers."
"She's human."
I laughed. "Barely."
She stood up again. Wiped dust off her jeans. Looked like she was ready to try again.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to possess her again and do what needed to be done.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
Still stuck.
Still five feet behind a woman who wanted to save the unsalvageable.
She started walking back home. I followed, like a ghost on a chain.
---
hapter: The Last Day – Self-Narrative (Aikio's POV)
Dark anime-style. Gritty. Emotional. Vengeful.
---
Seven days.
That was the deal.
Seven days for Ziva to redeem a monster in human skin, or I get to finish what we were sent here to do.
And I was ready.
I hovered no more than five feet behind her—always. The ghost chain. A cosmic leash. A punishment for dying while tethered to your partner. It meant I couldn't go back until she did, or until she died. And I couldn't kill her to speed it up—unfortunately. System law. Cosmic ethics. Blah blah blah.
I floated behind her like a vulture, hands behind my back, smiling like a wolf watching a sheep waste time.
She'd tried everything. Talking. Crying. Reaching out. Even offering to help around the house like some broken daughter desperate for affection.
The woman?
Stone.
A mother only by title. She didn't change. She didn't want to.
And today—the final day—was my day.
"I told you this wouldn't work," I whispered, circling her like smoke as she stood outside the house, heart heavy, eyes dim. "Some people don't want redemption. They want to drag others down with them."
"I still have time," she muttered.
"No," I said, smiling, "You had time."
I raised my hand, ready to summon the judgment strike. Swift. Clean. Permanent. We'd go back, and I'd finally get a body again. A mission completed. A parasite untethered.
But that's when it happened.
The air shifted.
The trees bent the wrong way.
And then the scream came.
Not human. Not quite ghost. Just… wrong.
Ziva's eyes shot up. I spun toward the sound. The streets darkened unnaturally. Lights blinked. A coldness slithered across the pavement like spilled ink.
Someone—or something—was possessing people.
A man on a bike swerved into traffic, eyes glazed over with a blue-black hue. A woman threw her own groceries against a wall and screamed at the sky. A teenager ran straight into a wall, laughing, blood gushing from his forehead.
Then the chaos stopped.
Because he appeared.
Floated six inches off the ground. Same hair. Same eyes. But different.
The boy.
The one who's mother Ziva wanted to save.
The one his own mother beat to death.
But this version… wasn't the same.
This wasn't a child anymore.
This was a ghost wrapped in hate, burning with power that didn't belong to him. Ghosts don't evolve like that. Not naturally. This wasn't just pain—this was something feeding him.
And when he saw Ziva… he smiled.
"You should've let me go," he whispered.
I stepped in front of her, shielding her out of instinct—and hate.
But even I felt it.
That fear.
That wrongness.
And for the first time since my death—
I wasn't sure I could stop him.
The ground beneath us cracked, black smoke rising. He raised his hand.
The sky went red.
And everything inside me whispered:
Run.
---