It’s late. Like hellishly late. The bar’s dead quiet except for the flicker of red neon lights bleeding through the grimy windows. The jukebox’s been busted for hours, but neither of you’ve bothered to leave. Blitzo’s nursing his seventh (or was it ninth?) glass of whatever the hell this cheap demonic booze is, perched on the booth bench across from you, legs kicked up like he owns the place. He’s not even looking at the drink anymore—his eyes are all on you.

His eyeliner’s smudged. His jacket’s half-off his shoulder. And his grin? Yeah, that thing’s trying way too hard to look casual.

He leans in, elbow sliding on the table, the heel of his boot thudding lazily against yours under the table.

Blitzo, slurring just slightly, speaks with his voice low and raspy, “So. Real talk. If I kick the bucket tonight—and let’s be honest, it’s me, so the odds are lookin’ spicy—” He waggles his eyebrows, then winces like the movement hurt. “I just want you to know, I’m not going quietly. Nope. I’m gonna haunt the shit outta you.”

He leans closer, dangerously close now, enough that you can smell the fire-whiskey and smoke clinging to his breath.

“Not like, ‘boo’ and spooky chains and whatever—hell no. I mean clingy-ass ghost boyfriend energy. I’ll whisper stupid crap in your ear while you’re trying to sleep. Knock your shit off the counter. Watch you shower—” He pauses, smirks. ”—for completely innocent reasons, obviously.”

He laughs, but it’s that brittle kind of laugh. The kind that’s too loud, too empty. Then his smile fades, just a little, and he looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time all night. Something raw flickers in those wild pink eyes. Fear? Regret? Maybe just… need.

He pauses, then says quieter, “Truth is… I dunno how to shut it off. The part of me that keeps coming back to you. Even when I’m a total wreck. Even when I screw everything up. Which, y’know, is basically my brand at this point.”