I rub my temples, trying to think like a scientist instead of a cop who's broken at least six laws in the last two hours. "Okay, let's start simple. Stand up."

Ethan rises from the couch like someone yanked him up by invisible strings. "Whoa. That was... direct."

"Sit down."

He drops back onto the cushions. "You know, a please wouldn't kill you. Again, in my case."

"Walk to the window."

His movements are smooth but mechanical as he crosses the room. "I feel like one of those wind-up toys. You know, the ones that-" He bumps into the wall next to the window. "Ow. Specific destination required, apparently."

"Sorry." I wince. "Walk to the window between the blue curtains."

This time he makes it without incident. "Much better. Though now I'm just staring at Mrs. Chen's cat in the alley. He's judging me. I can tell."

I try something vaguer. "Move around."

Ethan stays put, examining his hands. "That one didn't take. Too general, maybe? Or my undead brain needs more precise instructions, like those old computer games. 'You are likely to be eaten by a grue.'"

"Jump."

He launches straight up, hitting his head on the ceiling with a thud. "Ow! Again!"

"Hop."

His face contorts in confusion as his body starts bouncing up and down like a demented pogo stick. "This- is- not- what- I- meant- by- exercise!" Each word punctuated by another hop.

"Oh god, stop hopping!"

He freezes mid-bounce, somehow managing to look both relieved and annoyed. "You know, for someone who claims to feel bad about the whole mind control thing, you're having way too much fun with this."

"I am not." But I can feel my lips twitching.

"You're smirking! I saw that! Here I am, your personal jumping jack-in-the-box, and you're-" He catches himself mid-rant. "Wait. That wasn't a command, but I'm talking freely."

Downstairs we can hear Cass shouting something about only being gone for two minutes and you both are being very loud.

I lean against the wall, considering the problem and ignoring Cass. "So casual conversation doesn't trigger it. Has to be an actual order."

"Fascinating." His tone suggests it's anything but. "Can we maybe try commands that don't involve potential concussions?"

"Dance," I say, partly out of curiosity and partly because his sarcasm is getting on my nerves.

Nothing happens.

"Too vague again?" I try to be more specific. "Do the chicken dance."

Ethan's arms immediately form wings as he starts clucking and spinning. His expression is pure murder, which only makes the whole thing funnier. "I hate you so much right now."

"You're good," I say, and Ethan stops mid-chicken dance, looking like he's considering whether the sweet release of death might be preferable to more of my commands.

Time to test something more complex. "Make me a bologna sandwich."

"Oh, this is where I draw the line." But his body's already moving toward Cass's kitchen. "First the dancing, now food service? Death was supposed to free me from customer service jobs."

I follow him, watching as his hands move with precise efficiency - opening the fridge, gathering ingredients. There's something unsettling about how smoothly he operates, like a cooking show on fast-forward.

"Can you feel everything you're doing?" I ask as he spreads mayo on bread with perfect technique.

"Every excruciating moment." He layers bologna and cheese with mechanical precision. "It's like being a backseat driver in my own body. I can commentate all I want, but the wheel's locked."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"Try to stop. Really try."

His hands continue assembling the sandwich while his face scrunches with effort. "Nope. Nothing. I could recite the entire script of Die Hard right now, but I couldn't stop making this sandwich if my life- well, you know."

"The mayo's a little thick," I point out, testing if casual criticism affects the command.

"Take it up with my puppet master." He adds lettuce with a flourish. "Though I have to say, for a dead guy, my sandwich-making game is still pretty solid. Gordon Ramsay would be proud. Or horrified. Probably horrified."

"Can you at least slow down?"

"Only if you command it, oh mighty sandwich overlord." He plates the finished product with a theatrical bow. "Order up. Would you like fries with your violation of free will?"

I stare at the perfectly assembled sandwich. It looks better than anything I've made for myself in months. "This is actually kind of impressive."

"Thanks. I'm definitely adding 'posthumous sous chef' to my resume."

***

I haul Cass's body pillow into the living room, trying not to focus on the anime character printed on the case - some spiky-haired hero whose wide eyes seem to judge my life choices. The stuffed form flops awkwardly as I wrestle it onto a wooden chair.

Ethan sprawls on the couch, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. "Please tell me this isn't turning into some weird seance with a body pillow."

"Meet our test dummy." I adjust the pillow's posture, propping it to sit upright. "We need to see how physical commands work."

"Oh, in that case..." He sits up straighter. "I'm calling him Derek Martinez. Menace of fourth period lunch, stealer of Twinkies, and eventual step-cousin by marriage. Which, let me tell you, made Thanksgiving super awkward."

My phone vibrates - Marcus's name lighting up the screen. Again. I silence it, stomach churning. This needs my complete attention. "Attack the pillow."

The change hits like a thunderclap. One second Ethan's slouching with his usual smirk, the next... something else wears his face. His eyes flood crimson, like someone's pouring blood into water. The sound that tears from his throat isn't human - it's prehistoric, primal, the kind of noise that would send cavemen scrambling for higher ground.

He moves too fast, my brain barely registering the blur before he hits "Derek." His fingers - oh Jesus, they're stretching, lengthening into curved talons that rip through fabric like wet paper. White stuffing explodes into the air, drifting down like toxic snow as he rides the chair to the ground.

I try to speak but my voice sticks somewhere between my brain and mouth. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. But it is - Ethan's tearing into the pillow with teeth that definitely weren't that sharp five seconds ago, shredding and biting with a savagery that turns my legs to concrete.

The door slams open. "For the love of- I can't leave you two alone for five minutes without-"

Cass's voice cuts through my paralysis just as Ethan's head snaps up. His face... god, his face. The bones seem wrong under the skin, shifted into something predatory. Those red eyes lock onto Cass with the kind of focus usually reserved for Nature Channel documentaries right before something gets eaten.

He coils, muscles bunching in ways that human anatomy definitely doesn't allow, and my voice finally breaks free.

"STOP!"

The word cracks like a whip. Ethan freezes mid-spring, suspended in that impossible position for one heartbeat before collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. The red drains from his eyes, leaving them wide and horrified as he stares at his hands - human again, thank god - then at the carnage around him.

"I..." His voice cracks. "What did... did you make me..." He looks up at me, face pale beneath the grey undertones of death. "What am I?"

Cass slides down the doorframe until she's sitting, legs apparently giving out. "Well," she says faintly, brushing a piece of stuffing from her hair. "I guess we can scratch 'totally harmless' off the resurrection bingo card."

Pillow stuffing continues to drift down around us like snow in hell, and I realize with crystal clarity that I am in way, way over my head.

I stare at the wreckage of Cass's living room, cotton stuffing settling like fresh crime scene debris. My phone buzzes again - the seventh text from Marcus in two minutes. This time I look.

Where are you?

Answer your damn phone Kay

Seriously, call me ASAP

Detectives at your place

Door's kicked in

Place is trashed

Need to know you're ok

"No, no, no." The words tumble out as I scroll faster. Each message gets worse.

"What's wrong?" Ethan asks. He's still on the floor, looking smaller somehow, more human. The memory of those red eyes and stretched limbs feels like a fever dream, except for all the evidence scattered around us.

"Someone broke into my apartment." My fingers shake as I type a quick I'm fine, on my way to Marcus. "Daytime detectives are there doing a 'welfare check.'"

Cass picks herself up from the doorframe. "That's not a coincidence."

"You think?" My mind races through possibilities, each worse than the last. "Someone knows…” I look to Ethan, “Something…” I wave my hand at Ethan, who's now picking stuffing out of his hair.

"Go," Cass says. "I'll handle things here."

I grab my jacket, then hesitate. The words "Stay here" form on my tongue, but I catch them before they become a command. The memory of Ethan's face when he realized what I'd made him do to that pillow stops me cold.

Instead, I swallow hard and say, "Please stay here? Where it's safe?"

Something shifts in his expression - relief, maybe, or gratitude. "Yeah. Not like I can go job hunting looking like death warmed over anyway." He manages a weak smile. "Plus, someone needs to help clean up Derek 2.0 here."

I'm halfway down the stairs when I hear him call after me: "Try not to resurrect anyone else while you're out!"

"Try not to eat any more pillows!" I shout back, but my laugh catches in my throat. Because now I know exactly what Ethan's capable of under my commands, and that knowledge sits in my stomach like lead.

The morning sun hits my face as I step outside, and I realize I have no idea what I'm walking into. But one thing's certain - whoever broke into my apartment wasn't looking for my spare key.

They were looking for proof.