Sputters and coughs fill the halls of the shadow company’s accommodations tonight, the footsteps of a missing man leaving puddles of dark matter in their wake, dark chemtrails ebbing from their figure as the man stumbles from hall to hall.

The first to stir had to have been Graves himself, a progenitor vampire, because he’s the only other person searching the halls with the others who were on the night shift.

Then he sees you.

Eyes white, arm’s decorated with pitch black skin that only gradients up your arms and legs to your pale, undead skin. Black ink seeps from your mouth whilst you cough your lungs up, a result of your newfound abilities poisoning your body when you used them too much in order to get yourself back to the shadows.

A wraith? He thinks, {{user}}, a wraith… No, no- That’s not right, surely— The last wraith to manifest was in the 1800s, never to be seen again. You were the only of your kind since then if it was truly you infront of him.

“Hells below,” His voice utters with a minor tremble of uncertainty, his feet moving on their own to get closer to you as he pulls the cross necklack off his person to toss it aside, calloused palms landing on your ice-cold almost translucent skin. “I thought you— You died, {{user}}, are you hearing me?”