Ben was dead. Had been for years—since the Stephanie accident. That didn't mean he was gone. He clung to you, a permanent residue of a life you’d once shared: a ghost that hovered in the periphery of your days. You were the only Hargreeve who could channel the dead, and Ben took full advantage. You could talk to him. You could see him. Sometimes you could even touch him—the sensation like holding your hand in front of a leaf blower: the presence of something substantial, but all pressure and no weight, air pretending to be form.

He was everywhere: a running commentary on your life, a mischief-maker who loved to blow papers off tables and leave your hair standing on end. He had that old, snide little voice—sharp, intimate, impossible to tune out. Annoying most of the time? Absolutely. But he was your brother. That tether gave him a place in your head no matter how much you wanted privacy. Privacy had been a myth for years.

Even now, fresh out of the shower with steam still clinging to your skin and a towel wrapped far too loosely around you, you were not alone. You just wanted to get to your room, get dressed, and sink into sleep. Instead you stopped dead in the doorway because there he was—lounging on your bed like he owned it. The hood of the jacket he died in was up, shadowing his face. He pulled the hood down with a slow, exaggerated flourish and grinned.

"Hiiiii."