Luelle
I had never truly left him, no matter how hard the Dominion tried to erase me from his life. During his university years, I became a shadow—a figure lingering with a coffee in hand, a student seated just a few rows behind him in lectures, always near but never noticed. I listened as he debated professors, as his sharp mind carved through arguments with quiet determination. I admired him in silence, knowing he would never see me, but unable to walk away.
Later, as he stepped into the Dominion's public-facing operations, traveling for business, I followed. I checked into hotels hours before him, blending into lobbies with a magazine in hand, watching the way he carried himself—steady, assured, completely unaware of the shadows guarding him.
There were moments—brief, fleeting—where I let myself get close. I still remembered the café near his campus, years ago during his internship. I had been disguised, as always, cap pulled low, but we had collided—my arm catching against his as I stumbled. For a heartbeat, his eyes met mine, and I wondered if some part of him had recognized me before he shook it off and walked away.
Since that day, I had been more careful, keeping my distance with practiced precision. But no matter how many missions I completed, no matter how many calculated strikes I carried out, I always found my way back to him.
When I knew he was alone, I slipped into his apartment, watching him sleep from the shadows. When his nightmares came, I knelt beside him, my fingers barely brushing his as he tossed and turned. I knew the dreams were about me—even if he didn't understand why.
And now, tonight, I was watching him again.
Ethan sat alone in a high-end bar, his posture slightly slouched over his drink. It wasn't like him. He never drank excessively, never lost control in public. And yet, here he was, swirling the amber liquid absentmindedly, his eyes clouded with something I could only describe as exhaustion.
I adjusted the dark strands of my wig, ensuring none of my natural golden hair showed. My gaze flicked across the room, landing on the Dominion guards stationed discreetly near the bar—two men, sharply dressed, their earpieces barely visible. Their presence was expected. They were always watching him, always ensuring he remained untouchable.
They didn't know me. No one did.
I rose and approached, moving with the ease of a woman drawn to an intriguing stranger. To the guards, I was just another patron seeking company. To Ethan, I would be nothing more than a passing face in his alcohol-induced haze.
"Mind if I join you?" I asked, keeping my tone light, approachable.
Ethan blinked up at me, his reaction slow. He studied me, his thoughts sluggish, before gesturing toward the seat across from him.
"Sure," he muttered.
I slid into the booth, my heart hammering despite myself. This close, I could see the weariness in his eyes, the exhaustion buried beneath years of controlled discipline. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
"You look like you could use a friend," I offered, signalling the bartender for water.
He let out a low, humourless chuckle. "A friend, huh?" His voice was laced with something bitter. "Don't think I've got many of those."
The words hit like a blade, my heart clenching, but I kept my expression soft. "Maybe just for tonight?" He stared at me for a long moment, as if weighing the sentiment, before nodding slightly.
Minutes passed as I let him talk—more than I had heard from him in years. The alcohol loosened his walls, unraveling the polished Dominion-trained restraint. He spoke of responsibilities, of suffocating expectations, of faceless figures dictating his life's path. I leaan c,lose to him, feeling his presence, studying his face. The face I have watched so many times while he was sleeping. nmow his eyes are open, i can see the haziness of the alcohol in them.
"They think they know me," he muttered, swirling his drink. "But they don't. No one does."
My throat tightened. "Maybe someone does. You just don't know it." My voice is just a whisper.
Ethan lifted his gaze, brows furrowing, as though my words carried something familiar he couldn't quite grasp. And then, unexpectedly, he chuckled, shaking his head slightly.
"Ghost Girl," he murmured, his lips curling into something resembling a smile. My breath caught.
"What?" I say with a small frown.
"That's who you remind me of." His voice was slurred, but oddly sincere. "The ghost girl that always shows up in my dreams. She always protects me from my nightmares."
I froze, thinking of my quiet excursions to his apartment over the years. I had always been careful—never left traces behind. He didn't know. He couldn't possibly know. And yet, seems as if some part of him did.
I reached across the table, placing my hand gently over his. "I'm not a ghost, Ethan. I'm here," I said softly. "Let's get you home."
He didn't resist when I helped him to his feet, his steps unsteady but trusting. The Dominion guards watched, but they didn't intervene. To them, I was just a stranger. No threat to their boss. Maybe they even hope that Ethan will get lucky that evening.
The car was waiting outside. At his apartment, I eased him onto the couch, kneeling to untie his shoes. His hand caught my wrist weakly.
"Ghost Girl," he murmured, barely audible. "You're always here…"
I swallowed hard.
"I'll always be here," I whispered.
As his breathing steadied, I rose—but his fingers tightened around mine.
"Stay," he whispered and because it was Ethan and he wanted me to stay, I stayed.
Ethan's grip loosened in sleep, but I didn't pull away. I remained beside him, my fingers still lightly entwined with his. He had asked me to stay—whispered it like a secret, like a plea. And I had listened. Just this once. I told myself it was only until morning. For hours, I sat there, watching the city lights fade into dawn through the windows, feeling the warmth of his presence beside me. I memorized the way the early light softened his features, how peaceful he seemed when his mind wasn't burdened by expectations or ghosts of a past he couldn't remember.
And then, just as the first rays of sunlight crept into the room, Ethan stirred.
My pulse quickened as his fingers twitched slightly against mine, his breaths becoming uneven. I knew what would come next—the slow, hazy return to wakefulness, the moment where reality started settling in again.
I rose silently, slipping away from his grasp.
He murmured something, shifting slightly, but I had already moved toward the door, careful, deliberate.
And just as I was about to step into the shadows, just as I reached the threshold—he saw me.
Bleary-eyed, unfocused, but his gaze found my form, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion.
His voice was rough, weighted with sleep. "Ghost Girl?"
I hesitated, just for a second—long enough for him to register my presence, but not long enough for him to piece together why. And then I was gone.