Dead Air
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No News is Bad News
There’s something deeply disturbing about not being on the news.
Not in a narcissistic way. I’m not an attention-seeker—well, not in the usual sense.
But when you die—and by die, I mean get hit by a car in the middle of the street, carried off by a famous rich guy, and then mysteriously drop off the face of the Earth—you expect something to be said about it.
Yet, as I flip through channel after channel, all I see is:
1. A Labrador who saved a toddler from choking. (Showoff.)
2. A segment about rising gas prices. (Wouldn’t be my problem anymore, except, you know…still here.)
3. A half-baked tribute to a superhero who stopped an armed robbery last night.
I pause.
Because, huh.
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Dead Giveaways
The news is showing grainy security footage.
Some masked figure—black suit, silent movements, the kind of efficiency that screams ex-military or something even worse—takes down three men like he’s breaking twigs.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The reporter calls him The Phantom.
I snort.
> "Dramatic."
It’s not just the name that gets me.
It’s the way he fights—precise, methodical, controlled.
Not like a hero.
Like someone who knows exactly how much force it takes to kill someone and is choosing not to.
That’s not the kind of restraint you see in caped crusaders.
That’s the kind you see in professionals.
Interesting.
My eyes drift downward, to where one of the thugs’ weapons has been knocked aside.
A very specific, very recognizable knife.
My gaze flicks to the shelf across the room, where an identical knife sits among a carefully arranged collection.
Back to the screen.
Back to the shelf.
Well, now.
That’s interesting.
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An Old Friend in Red
I flip the channel again, and—oh.
Well, well.
Lady Karma is back in the headlines.
A new victim. Another art piece.
The screen shows the usual crime scene photos—blood-painted walls, the body arranged in a carefully choreographed composition.
The commentators go on about the "moral debate of a killer who only targets rapists and abusers", but I don’t hear them.
Because all I see is the sloppy reporting, the cheap headlines, the irritatingly inaccurate takes on something that took so much time, so much effort.
And, before I can stop myself, I murmur—
> "I hate that name."
It’s automatic. A reflex.
The words slip out, quiet, but weighted with something that must’ve been lurking just under the surface.
And that’s when Aaron walks in.
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Cold Readings
I feel him before I see him.
The quiet presence, the way the air in the room seems to shift.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that calm, measured intensity that makes my instincts prick with something between amusement and wariness.
I don’t turn to face him yet.
Instead, I tilt my head toward the screen.
> "Let me guess," I say, still watching the news. "You’re about to say, ‘you knew her.’"
> "You knew her," he says.
I smirk.
Slowly, I turn, finally meeting his gaze.
> "‘Knew’ is such a strong term. Implies we had tea on Sundays."
> "You hate the name."
His tone is even. No accusation, no suspicion—just observation.
> "I have standards."
His eyes don’t leave mine.
> "What do you do?"
He says it casually, like it’s small talk.
I take my time, stretching out on the couch, studying him right back.
There’s something… off about Aaron.
Not in a bad way.
But in a ‘this man is not normal, and I need to figure out why’ kind of way.
His presence is too steady. His voice, too controlled.
He doesn’t react like normal people do.
Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver.
And the way he watches me now—curious, calculating, unbothered—
Yeah.
Definitely not normal.
> "What did you do, while you were alive?" he repeats.
I tilt my head.
Then, with a slow, amused smirk—
> "Well…"
"I suppose you could say I was an artist."
A pause.
A flicker of something behind his eyes.
And not for the first time since I woke up not-dead, I think—
This is going to be fun.
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