Chapter 18: Every rule is like burning magma
WEDNESDAY'S POV
I stood as a silent, eternal sentinel beside the bed, a statue of grief and fear in the dim, pre-dawn light. The room was steeped in a quiet so profound way, I could hear the faint, whispery sound of dust settling on the furniture. My gaze was locked on Spencer, who lay tangled in the expensive sheets, his body finally surrendering to the exhaustion that I, a dead thing, could no longer feel. The rise and fall of his chest was a rhythm I had come to watch with a fascination that bordered on the obsessive. It was the meter of life itself, something I would never experience again. He looked so cute in sleep, all the sharp, defensive edges of his waking life—the arrogance of the billionaire, the flinch of the haunted—softened into something pure and unsafe. The vulnerable, wounded man beneath was completely exposed, and he had, against all logic and reason, begun to carve a place for me in his living heart.
And it was going to destroy us both.
A sorrow as deep and cold as the Styx itself washed over me, so effective that it felt like a physical weight on my ghostly-like form. The worries weren't just in my mind; they were a cage around my spirit, each bar forged from the terrifying rules that bound my existence on earth. Things were not just getting worse; they were driving toward a catastrophic, inevitable conclusion. Spencer's developing feelings were a beautiful, poisonous flower blooming in a forbidden garden. I could admire its fragile petals, the way it turned toward the sun of his attention, but to touch it was to be fatally stung. For him, it was a budding affection, a connection forged in fire and survival. For me, it was a countdown, each passing day of his heart beating toward me, another grain of sand falling in the hourglass of my borrowed time, threatening to send me back into the abyss with my mission a failure and my soul burned to eternal fire.
The memory of my agreement with death himself, the sacred and terrible rules that governed my very existence, arose forward from the depths of my consciousness, not as a mere remembrance, but as a dreadful, chilling memory. It was more real than the hotel room, more immediate than Spencer's sleeping form.
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FLASHBACK...
IN THE UNDERWORLD
To call it a place would be to insult the word. It was an absence, a void where the very concept of life died in. The air was thick, not with molecules, but with the concentrated essence of regret and finality. It had a taste, like cold ash and forgotten promises. There was no sound, only a profound silence that was itself a form of noise—a pressure on the soul.
Before me, was a throne which was not built; but it had been formed—from the petrified anguish of a million lost souls and the cooled magma of cosmic judgment. Upon it sat King Hades,the god of death itself. His form was less a body and more a focal point for immense, dreadful power. You didn't see him with your eyes; you comprehended him with your soul, and the comprehension was terrifying. His presence was a lesson in scale, making you understand how small your own existence was.
His voice, when it came, did not travel through the dead air. It manifested directly within the core of my being, each syllable a law being rewritten into my essence. "I shall grant you access back to Earth," it echoed, a pronouncement that felt both like a gift and a sentence. "You did not deserve a sudden, untimely death, and we do not tamper Justice with Mercy." The words "Justice" and "Mercy" were capitalized in my mind, fundamental, opposing forces he wielded with absolute authority. "Because of despair, hatred, jealousy, and envy, you were killed. You will gain the justice you deserve."
A satisfying, fierce smile, sharp and unlikely, crept onto my face. It was the first true emotion I had felt in seventeen hours of nothingness, which turned out to be 17 years on earth. Vengeance. It was the single, glowing coal that had kept my spirit from dissolving entirely into the gloom. It was my purpose, my reason for clinging tight onto this moment. The thought of facing my siblings, and making them understand the consequence of their betrayal, was a balm on the wound of my murder.
"But," his voice boomed, a psychic shockwave that shattered my momentary triumph and forced my head to bow once more under its sheer force, "you shall abide by the rules about to be given to you. Any violation attracts immediate punishment and consequences, and we shall return you back here... instantly. Understood?" The final word was a weight, pressing down on my very presence, demanding absolute, unthinking submission.
I lifted my head, a monumental effort, forcing myself to meet the infinite, starless void of his gaze. "Yes, Lord Hades. I swear by my soul not to violate any rule." The oath left me, a binding contract etched not on paper, but on the fabric of my spirit. I felt it seal, a cold, permanent brand. My soul was now the collateral for this mission.
He smiled, a chilling sight that promised an eternity of consequence rather than joy. "Good. I shall empower you with a weapon that slaughters through souls. This will protect your ally, your puppet, and serve you well in crisis." From the swirling shadows around his hand, a chain materialized, each part of it forged not of metal, but of condensed despair and eternal coal. It was cold to the touch, even for me, and seemed to hum with a silent, malevolent energy. A brutal butcher's knife, its edge gleaming with a cold, hungry light that seemed to drink the dimness around it, was tied to its end. This was no ordinary blade; it was an instrument of cosmic retribution. The weapon floated through the stagnant air, a serpent of vengeance, and settled into my waiting hands. It was both weightless, as it was part of me, and heavier than any earthly object, for it carried the intense, solemn burden of my mission.
"First rule is #1," Hades began, and the air itself materialized with the force of his decree. "You shall not kill your adversary by yourself. You shall make someone your puppet. You were killed indirectly; justice is going to be indirect. Your hands, in their new semi-corporeal form, will never land the final blow on those who wronged you. That is the law. You are a guide, a manipulator of fate. To spill their blood yourself would be to violation and revenge,it shall be the very beginning of your demise."
"#2: You must never get intimate with anyone on any account, or your soul returns immediately." The word "intimate" hung in the air, laced with a thousand forbidden meanings—a touch, a confession. "This is the price for the power I grant you: the ability to become half in flesh and blood to your chosen puppet, to walk beside them as a tangible guide. But to all others, you will be invisible, a whisper, a ghost. Only your ally can see you, touch you, communicate with you through the Kiss Of Death, because it shall bind you two together. This privilege is not for connection; it is for utility. Do not mistake it. It is a tool, not a toy. The moment you seek comfort or passion in that touch, your time in the living world will snap."
"Rule #3: Never think of falling in love, nor make any living thing fall in love with you." His voice dropped, becoming dangerously soft, which was more frightening than any shout. "That is a penalty that attracts a second death. Your soul shall burn. Any violation of these rules, your stay on Earth will decrease faster than usual. The one hour you have been granted could turn to minutes and then seconds till there is no more time left. You might have to return at an approximation way less than your given time, be it mission accomplished or not. And ultimately, your soul will burn, because you swore with it." He let the finality of that hang in the oppressive silence. The cost of a single moment of weakness was not just failure, but absolute, irreversible annihilation.
He leaned forward, and the full force of his divine attention focused on me, freezing the very presence of my spirit. I felt transparent, every secret thought and potential future weakness laid bare before him. "The veil between the living and the dead will become thinner in a minute from now. Go."
I bowed slowly, the chain and knife sinking into my being, becoming as much a part of me as my thirst for revenge. I turned away from his dreadful presence, each step toward the shimmering, weakened patch in the fabric of the world feeling like a march toward both my salvation and the beginning of my damnation. The rules were clear, the consequences severe. I was a weapon of justice, and weapons do not love.
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BACK TO THE PRESENT...
I exhaled a breath I didn't need, the memory a brand fear onto my soul, it's more vivid and terrifying than any earthly experience. I never expected this. I had prepared for resistance, for a weak-willed puppet, for the logistical challenges of vengeance. I had steeled myself for violence and betrayal. I never anticipated Spencer—the rude, arrogant, deeply wounded, and unexpectedly courageous Spencer—to be the one to make these iron-clad rules feel like a prison designed specifically for me. He wasn't a passive puppet; he was a partner, a confidant. And in the quiet moments between the chaos, he had become something more.
I looked at him as he slept, so peaceful, so achingly alive. The morning light was strengthening, painting a golden stripe across the bedspread and highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air—a celebration of life I could only observe. He was completely unaware that his very affection, the gentle, persistent pull I felt him exert on my dead heart, was a sword hanging over my neck by the thinnest, most lightly of threads. I looked away, the sight becoming an agony I was not equipped to bear. To see such trust and vulnerability directed at me, a being who could only bring him pain and whose very existence was a countdown to goodbye, was a unique form of hell.
I got up and walked to the balcony, phasing through the glass door as if it were mist to stand in the indifferent embrace of the cold night air. The city below was a sparkling down view of living lights, each pinprick a story, a breath, a heartbeat. A world I was merely a ghost in, a tourist in the land of the living. A world whose most fundamental rule is—to love and be loved—was forbidden to me on pain of eternal torment. I had to finish my mission. I had to avenge my death. That was the only thing that mattered. It was my singular purpose, the reason I had been granted this terrible second chance. This… this developing affection was more than a distraction; it was a choas waiting to happen. It was a betrayal of my oath, a mockery of my justice, and the fastest path to my ultimate destruction.
I replayed the kiss in my mind, a forbidden film on a constant loop. The initial shock of his warmth against my cold, a contrast so stark it was undeniable. The strange, frozen electricity that had jolted through my spectral form, a pathetic, flickering echo of a sensation I could barely remember. The way my non-existent heart had seemed to stutter with a phantom memory of life. And then, the crushing, inescapable reality that had descended like a hailstorm: I am dead. I cannot feel what he feels. I am an echo, a memory, a tool of vengeance, not a lover. My lips are ice, my touch is a lie, and any love I might inspire is a death sentence for us both. The warmth he feels is an illusion; the cold he senses is the truth.
I stood there as a statue of regret, all night long, as the city's lights began to wink out one by one, surrendering to the dawn. I stood until the stubborn blackness of the sky was defeated, bleeding first into a deep, mournful grey, and then into the fragile pastels of dawn. The stars, distant and cold, faded one by one, and the sun began its slow, relentless climb, painting the horizon with colors I could see but no longer truly comprehend. As the light grew, so did my resolve. It hardened within me, cold and sharp and unyielding as the blade of my butcher's knife. This could not continue.
I really need to talk Spencer out of this forbidden triangle of love. I need to destroy these feelings of his, crush this budding hope before it opens its leaves and seeks the sun. I have to be cruel to be kind. To him, and to myself. I must make him see the sheer, devastating impossibility of it all. I must push him away, sever this connection before it strengthens. I must become the ghost he initially feared—distant, mercenary, focused only on the mission. For if I don't, if I allow even a sliver of this tenderness to remain, his love will not be my salvation. It will be the chain that drags me back to the underworld, my justice forever denied, my soul burning for all eternity for the crime of wanting, for one fleeting, impossible moment....
To feel alive again.
To be continued....