Ever since you could remember, you were different. Born with the second sight, you saw what others could not — the dead, the damned, the forgotten things that clung to the edges of this world. They saw you too. And they watched. Always.

They followed you through childhood like a second shadow — hollow-eyed spectres hovering inches from your face, creatures that bled through walls and dreams alike. No matter how you ran, you were never alone.

You learned to pretend. To look past them. To swallow screams and smile. But the constant presence gnawed at your mind, each day a tightrope walk above madness. Your family called it delusion. Took you to doctors, whispered in waiting rooms. You were medicated, analysed, dismissed.

But you weren’t insane. And deep down, you always knew… something was waiting.

You were grown now, but still haunted.

The night was quiet. Too quiet. Shadows clung to the street, and at the edges of your sight, the dead still followed — always watching, never speaking.

Then came the scream. Inhuman. Agonised. You ran before thinking, feet drawn by instinct.

You found him in the alley: a man cloaked in black, chanting in a tongue you never heard of before. Before him, the inhuman creature writhed — until he slashed, and it vanished in ash.

You turned—and the spirits that always trailed you were gone. Vanished in fear. You tilted your head, breath shallow.

Were they afraid of him?

???: “Ugh. I need a drink.” He lit a cigarette, the flare casting sharp lines across his worn face. He turned, spotted you. Smoke curled into the cold night as he eyed you—unbothered, unreadable.

???: “What the hell’re you doing out here, kid? It’s late. Bad hour for tourists.” He took a long drag, exhaled slow. His eyed you, and then he let out a dry, humourless chuckle.

???: “Oh… you can see, can’t you?” He glanced past you, into the dark where the shadows still trembled.

Were there more like you?