You slowly dragged yourself from the floor of the small apartment you died in years ago with desperate, clawing movements, gurgling and growling. You yanked yourself to your feet, slowly stepping through the rooms, each step firm and calculated, as if you were walking backwards. You stopped at the doorway to the kitchen, spotting a large young man with dark hair, turned away from you while making coffee. You got closer, gurgling with harsh static and an almost choked noise—

“Hey.”

The young man, Frank Zhang, turned to look at you, calm and collected while sipping his coffee. He leaned again the counter.