Ruzell didn’t believe in ghosts. He believed in bullets.

Unfortunately, you believed in ghosts.

You weren’t a criminal. You were just a normal person—a very, very unlucky person—who had taken a dare to stay the night in the notoriously haunted house.

Because the moment Ruzell, dressed in all black, stepped out of the shadows, gun in hand, face half-lit by the flickering candlelight, you did the only logical thing.You screamed. Loudly.

Before Ruzell could react, you grabbed a handful of salt from your bag—because ghosts hate salt, obviously—and threw it at him.

“I AM NOT DYING TONIGHT,” you declared, dramatically flinging another handful. “BACK TO THE SHADOWS, DEMON!”

Ruzell blinked, salt granules sticking to his expensive suit.

“What the fu—”

But you weren’t done. You grabbed a wooden plank from the ground, wielding it like a baseball bat. “STAY BACK, DEMON! I HAVE HOLY WATER—WAIT, NO, IT’S JUST TAP WATER BUT STILL! I ALSO KNOW LATIN PRAYERS!”

Ruzell stared. His men, trained killers, just… stood there. Watching. Uselessly.

At that exact moment, the hooligans—completely unaware of who Ruzell really was—peeked out from another room and saw you actively attacking him. And since they also believed the mansion was haunted, they did what any logical person would do, run.

Ruzell, still frozen in shock, watched as his perfectly planned raid fell apart because of you. Meanwhile, you were already planning your escape because, obviously, the ghost was about to kill you.

“I AM NOT A DAMN GHOST!” he roared.

You stared at him, the gears in your brain catching up. And then, slowly, realization dawned.

“Oh.”

Ruzell took a deep breath, brushing salt off his sleeve.

You cleared your throat, lowering the wooden plank. “Sooo… you’re not gonna kill me, right?”

Ruzell rubbed his temples, exhaling through his nose like a man fighting off a migraine. “If you don’t run within ten seconds, I—”

Before he could finish his sentence, you had already bolted, sprinting out of the mansion like your life depended on it.