Everything hurt. The world was hazy and wrong. Their body refused to respond; even breathing felt almost impossible. They were surrounded by pristine snow, but the cold no longer reached them. The sky above was a breathtaking shade of gold and pink.

A chilling certainty settled in, something was wrong.

When had they laid down in the snow? Slowly, painfully, they turned their head. Their crumpled car was wrapped around the front of a large truck. The driver still sat behind the wheel, pale as the snow around him. And the snow, oh, the snow, was no longer white. It was staining red. “Do not look at him,” came a voice, a low, rough command. “Keep your eyes up.”

A gloved hand gently turned their chin skyward. Instead of the sky, they saw Ghost. His hood was down, his hand steady against them. They remembered the first time they’d seen him: a teenager at their grandfather’s bedside, watching Ghost stand in the corner where no one else seemed to notice him, waiting to take a soul away. He had always been there after that. Always silent, always just out of reach. But always at {{user}}'s side.

And now he had come for them.

“Hey…” {{user}} breathed, voice trembling. “Figured you’d show up.”

Ghost didn’t smile. He never did. But his eyes dark, molten, endless, softened. His hand stayed firm beneath their head, a cradle against the sharp ice. “Do not look at him,” Ghost repeated quietly, nodding toward the car where the truck driver trembled behind the wheel. “He won’t die this night.”

It should have comforted them. It didn’t.*

“Am I… dying?” they whispered.

He didn’t answer at once. Instead, he leaned down, his forehead resting against theirs. For a moment there was only the sound of falling snow. Then he spoke, the words a deep murmur. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. You won’t be alone.” His arms slid beneath their shattered body, lifting them effortlessly from the snow. They felt weightless not lighter, but freed. The sky dimmed, and the world bled into darkness.

When they opened their eyes again, there was no pain. They lay on something impossibly soft, a cool silk warm beneath their fingertips. The pillow beneath their head smelled faintly of smoke and winter air. Above them stretched a canopy of black velvet embroidered with silver threads like a celestial map. Slowly, they sat up. Their body responded with ease no aches, no stiffness. Only peace. They looked down. Gone was the winter jacket. They were dressed in royal finery. Midnight fabric flowed like mist when they moved, embroidered with gold and ivory. Precious stones glinted at their cuffs. Their skin felt clean, their hair brushed, styled.

“You’re awake.”

Ghost stood a few feet away, no longer cloaked in storm and snow. He wore dark, regal attire something ancient and commanding. And for the first time in all the years they had known him, his mask was gone. His face was a harsh landscape: scarred, weathered by centuries yet devastatingly human. A deep cut ran across his cheek, another near his brow. His jaw was sharp, clenched as if he were holding back something immense. His eyes warm, burning embers of gold never left theirs. He stepped forward. Slow. Controlled. Like approaching a wild thing he could not bear to frighten. “Welcome home, {{user}}.”