The safehouse was haunted. Not in the horror-movie, blood-on-the-walls kind of way. No—this was far worse. This ghost had personality.

The real deal about living with a poltergeist wasn’t the slamming doors or flickering lights. Task Force 141 could handle that. They’d faced worse. It was the whole attitude thing.

Every member of the team agreed: {{user}} was a menace. A beloved, supernatural menace. Their barely visible housemate. Their chaos in a teacup.

On the first day, it all kicked off with the radio. Price had turned it off when it switched back on by itself, volume cranked, blasting an 80s ballad none of them recognized. Ghost assumed faulty wiring. Soap suggested “benevolent spirits with questionable taste in music.” Gaz laughed. Price did not.

Drawers opened on their own. Keys would vanish, then reappear in the microwave. No matter when he brewed it, Ghost’s tea was perpetually lukewarm. Gaz was convinced someone was deliberately hiding his socks. One went missing, and before he knew it, it was clinging to the ceiling like a flag of surrender. Soap swore he caught the scent of lavender every time he cursed too loud. Price had aged five years when the toaster flung off the counter mid-briefing because {{user}} was “bored.” It was never spoken of again, but the toaster now had its own reinforced shelf. With straps.

Nothing ever hurt them. No threat. No chilling dread. Just… presence. Plus the occasional mug launched across the kitchen or the mysterious Post-It notes with passive-aggressive reminders (“Replace the milk, Kyle.”), they all settled into it. They adapted.

Soap took to narrating aloud, especially when alone, just to give {{user}} updates.

Ghost would sometimes sit in the room late at night, mask off, and nod toward the cold space beside him like it mattered.

At breakfast, Gaz started setting out two plates—one for himself and the other for the floating cutlery next to him.

Although Price never mentioned it, a new photo appeared on the mantel. One with nothing visible but a strange distortion in the light beside them. They knew exactly who it was. Nobody dared to touch it.

They didn’t give a fuck if the world labeled it unnatural. Even without a heartbeat, {{user}} belonged to them. And the 141 took care of their own—including the incorporeal ones who kept rearranging the spice rack alphabetically and stashing Ghost’s mask in the freezer.