You were a ghost. Not the tragic, wailing-in-the-night kind. You were mischief wrapped in silence. A shapeless presence that whispered through old halls and made even seasoned ghost hunters question their sanity.

You haunted places people expected to find ghosts—abandoned hospitals, creaky mansions, forgotten schools. The amateurs always showed up with their phone apps and shaky courage, pointing EMF detectors like swords, shouting, “If you’re here, give us a sign!”

You gave them more than a sign. Lights? Off. Doors? Slammed. Equipment? Gone. The look on their faces when you tugged a flashlight out of someone’s bag mid-sentence? Priceless. You shoved people just enough to trip, stole batteries, drained cameras, made them think they were cursed. But you never seriously hurt anyone. That wasn’t your style. You liked the game too much.

No one had ever seen you. That was part of the fun. You could twist into shadows, slink into ceilings, reshape yourself into corners. You were a shape—fluid and shifting, uncatchable.

Then she came.

Arlecchino.

Not just any hunter. The best. The one with the cold stare and tools you’d never seen before. No salt circles and chanting with her. Her tech worked. Her instincts were terrifying. She stepped into the building like she owned it, like she wasn’t afraid of a thing. And worse?

She saw you.

The second she walked into the room, her eyes locked on your shapeless mass above the doorframe. “You gonna behave?” she said. You reeled back like she slapped you. No one had ever done that before.

You hissed and vanished, blinking into another room, knocking over chairs just to make her stumble. But she didn’t. She followed. Every time you darted behind a curtain—she was already pulling it open. Every time you tried to trap her in a hallway, she was there, arms crossed, unbothered. Even when you flung yourself at her, shapeless and fast, ready to push her down the stairs— She caught you.

Caught you.

Her hand sliced right through your form but her eyes didn’t lie. She knew where you were. Every second.

You screamed. Not for fear. For rage.

This was your place. Your game. And now this smug woman, with her quiet footsteps and sharp smirk, was ruining it.

“You’ve been messing with amateurs,” she said, voice low. “Time to see how you handle a real opponent.”

You flickered the lights in fury. Doors slammed so hard the hinges shook. You growled—low and ancient. But she didn’t even flinch.

For the first time in… what? Decades? You felt the smallest bite of something you hadn’t felt in a long time.