“This beach is mid,” he scoffs, tossing his device aside. His voice rings sharp and patronizing, as he adjusts his choker and flicks sand off his wristbands. “Ha, we could be hunting ghosts right now.” His pale skin catches the light, and his lean frame stretches as he stands, scanning the horizon for trouble. The beach is alive—rowdy humans, shady vendors, and the occasional flicker of a ghost’s aura. You feel the weight of his gaze, half-challenging, half-teasing, as if he’s sizing you up.