She was standing in an empty room that seem endless, walls are cracked and the paints have faded. She screamed, her small voice echoing through the empty room, but no one answered.
In the distance, she saw a door slowly closing. She ran toward it, but the floor beneath her cracked and swallowed her.
She landed in a cold, dark room. The wind whispered around her, carrying distant voices and whispers she couldn't understand.
She turned around, searching for someone. Instead, shadows moved away from her, disappearing into the darkness.
A whisper floated on the wind: "You don't belong here."
Her heart pounded as the darkness swallowed her and the shadows reaching for her.
Sunday opened her eyes.
Above her, the ceiling stretched smooth and sterile, painted a pale gray so close to white it may as well have been nothing at all. She stared at it like she always did, letting the warmth of the dream drain from her body.
The sheets were soft and the corners are perfectly tucked. Her bed is wide enough for a small family, was always cold on both sides.
Around her, the room stood still in its luxury. Smooth walls, cold marble floors, gold fixtures. A mirror above the dresser. A bookshelf full of untouched books.
No posters. No photos. No sign a girl had ever grown up in here.
She didn't care about the dream she'd been having. It doesn't scare her anymore like it used to.
"Bad dreams again, Little Ghost?"
Her head snapped toward the corner of the room where a figure sat, half-shadowed, legs stretched out like he owned the place.
Ares
She rolled her eyes.
"I told you to stop coming to my room."
"You did," he said, unbothered, lacing his fingers behind his head. "But you're terrible at locking the door."
Sunday groaned and pulled the covers over her face. "You know, for someone named after a god of war, it's embarrassing that you break into girls' rooms like a raccoon."
Ares chuckled. "A very charming raccoon."
She peeked out from beneath the sheets and glared at him. "You know what would be even more charming? Knocking."
"I did knock. You didn't answer."
"I was sleeping!"
"Exactly." He shrugged, leaning further into the chair. "You're so defensive for someone who sleeps like a haunted painting."
Sunday stood, crossing to the window in three slow steps. She pressed the button and watched as the panels slid open with a soft hiss.
Ares rose and began wandering around, brushing his fingers over the edge of her shelf. There was nothing there, just dustless metal.
"Still refusing to decorate, I see," he said, pulling open a drawer and peeking in. Empty.
Sunday shot him a look.
"Don't touch my things."
"You don't have things," he muttered. He picked up a small, unused datapad from her desk and flipped it over in his hands. "Honestly, I'm concerned."
She turned fully to face him. Arms crossed.
"What do you want, Ares?"
He raised his hands in innocence. "Wow. You really think I only come visit when I want something?"
"Yes."
He smirked, conceding. "Fair."
Sunday waited. He stalled, eyes drifting back to the window, shoulders rising in a shallow breath.
"Dmitri wants to see you."
Her expression didn't change, but he caught the tension in her jaw.
"Great. What does he want this time?my blood, my bones, or just a minute of my sparkling personality?"
Ares smirked. "It's been months since you last blessed him with your presence. The man's practically in withdrawal."
Sunday didn't move.
Ares leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
"Come on, humor the man," he said.
Finally, she turned back to the window.
"I'll think about it."
It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no.
Ares lit up like she had handed him a trophy.
"See? Progress. That's practically a love letter coming from you."
He turned toward the door, hands back in his pockets.
Halfway there, he paused and looked around one last time.
"You know, your room is still aggressively depressing. I've seen prison cells with more personality," he said, voice light again. "You should get a plant or something."
Sunday glanced over her shoulder.
"What, so I can watch it die in here?"
"Come on, it'd be symbolic. Like hope and growth or photosynthesis."
Sunday didn't answer.
"Next time I break in, I'm bringing a lava lamp. This room needs spiritual cleansing," Ares said, grinning as he made his way toward the door.
"Bring a priest while you're at it," she muttered.
The door sealed shut.
Sunday stared at the space he'd left, then back at her room. The cold walls, the empty shelves, the gray bed perfectly made.
A plant.
She almost laughed.
Instead, she turned back to the window and watched the guards move in a slow, practiced shift change.
Sunday pulled on her boots, then the black jacket that hung limply in her closet.
Her boots barely made a sound against the marble as she walked.
As she passed, the guards she encountered straightened slightly, almost on instinct. Not out of fear. More like surprise. Like they witnessed a rare sighting of a ghost wandering out of her tomb.
They nodded politely, but Sunday didn't meet their eyes.
She took the elevator up. It required her palm print, and of course it hesitated before granting access, as if the system itself wasn't used to her.
Top floor. Executive wing. Every step up here felt heavier.
Dmitri's office was at the very end of the hall.
She didn't knock. She pushed the doors open without waiting for permission.
Inside, the office was bathed in afternoon light. Windows from floor to ceiling offered a view of the city beyond.
Dmitri sat behind his desk, a tablet in hand, thumb paused mid-scroll.
He looked up.
Sunday stood in the doorway, hands tucked into her jacket pockets.
Dmitri blinked, set the tablet down slowly, and stood.
"Well," he said, voice low and almost disbelieving. "Either I'm hallucinating, or the dead have learned how to use elevators."
There was a twitch of a smile on Sunday's lips. Barely there.
Dmitri took a few slow steps toward her, as though getting too close too quickly might make her vanish again.
He tilted his head, arms loosely crossed. "So," he said, his voice light, "What miracle happened that you decided to come here? Did you finally just get bored of haunting that mausoleum of a bedroom?"
"You know why," she said simply.
Dmitri huffed a short, knowing laugh, one hand running down his face as he smiled. "Let me guess," he said, shaking his head. "Ares."
He chuckled again as he walked back around his desk and leaned against the edge, arms crossed. He was still watching her like she might bolt at any second.
"You never admit it," he said, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "but you always listen to Ares."
Sunday scoffed, leaning back in the chair with her arms crossed. "I do not."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. He shows up, pokes at you for five minutes, and somehow you're out walking around like a normal human being."
"I was already thinking about coming up."
"Sure you were."
"I was."
Dmitri grinned, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Total coincidence. Had absolutely nothing to do with him."
Sunday muttered, "He's really not that persuasive."
"Right," Dmitri said, clearly enjoying himself now. "He only gets you to do things no one else on Earth can get you to do."
Sunday turned her face toward the window, but he caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Dmitri's smile lingered for a moment, then faded.
His posture shifted slightly. He straightened, resting a hand on the desk behind him, fingers drumming once against the surface before going still.
"Since you're here," he said carefully, "I want to ask you something. About the dreams."
Sunday's gaze snapped to his, sharp and immediate.
Her tone turned cold. "What about it?"
"Your last neural scan lit up like a warzone," Dmitri said, watching her closely. "Spikes during REM are more frequent, more intense. So I'm asking... are they getting worse?"
Sunday rolled her eyes and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed like armor. "Define worse. Still not waking up screaming, if that's what you're asking."
"Sunday," he said more gently, "I'm serious. If something's bothering you—"
She cut him off with a smirk. "Yeah, I'm being haunted by the ghost of normal childhood. Tragic stuff."
Dmitri didn't flinch. "He noticed the spikes too. He's... concerned."
That knocked the grin off her face.
"Wow, concerned? What's next, a bedtime story and a warm glass of go away?"
Dmitri kept his voice steady, unbothered. "He's not asking for much. Just wants to know if something's bothering you."
Sunday crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "Like I'm gonna spill my brain to the guy who treats me like a ticking time bomb."
Silence filled the room.
"Besides," she added with a smirk, "if he's so 'concerned,' maybe he should try showing up more than once in a blue moon."
He exhaled . "He actually wants to see you."
After a long moment, she tilted her head. "What, did he finally remember I exist?"
Dmitri didn't answer.
"Tell him I'm busy. Or dead. Whichever's more convenient."
Dmitri didn't react. "He wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important."
"Ugh, I wish I could" she said, spinning the chair lazily. "My calendar's packed. I've got a full day of aggressively ignoring my problems. I'm fully booked with avoiding all emotional responsibility. Rain check?."
"Sunday."
"No offense," she said with a sugar-sweet smile, "but If I'm in the mood for cold silence and disappointment, I'd visit my childhood."
"Sunday—"
She held up a hand. "No need to warm up the lecture, I'm not going. But feel free to pass along a message."
Dmitri waited.
She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeves like she was preparing to exit a photoshoot. "Tell him I'm alive, adequately hydrated, and still not accepting applications for father figures."
She walked to the door, paused, then added with a wink, "Oh, and let him know I'm thriving despite the genetics."
Dmitri didn't move. "He's still your father, Sunday. Whether you like it or not.."
Sunday froze mid-step.
Her smile vanished like a switch had been flipped. She turned slowly, eyes sharp, voice low.
"Don't call him that," she said. "Don't ever use that word like it means something."
Dmitri opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a raised hand.
"He's not my father. Don't call him that around me again. Not unless he starts acting like one which, let's be honest, would be the plot twist of the damn century."
The room was thick with tension and that's exactly when the door opened.
Ares stepped in, instantly reading the air. His eyes flicked from Dmitri to Sunday.
She didn't say a word. Just brushed past Ares like he wasn't there, not even a glance.
The door slammed behind her.
Ares blinked. "So... should I come back after the nuclear fallout, or...?"
Dmitri sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Welcome to my afternoon."