It was a weirdly normal afternoon in the Veiled Realm—sky bruised pink and green, shadows slinking across the grass like gossiping snakes, and the gargoyles on Griffin Spire twitching their wings in irritation every time someone walked too loud. The air hummed with the faint crackle of magic, and the quad smelled like damp earth and something sharp, metallic, like old iron.

The quad buzzed with that usual eerie harmony: a banshee band practicing under the whispering willow trees, their voices keening like wind through crypts; a pair of pixie twins hexing vending machines for free snacks, their tiny voices high and malicious; and some first-year vampire trying to avoid sunlight leaking in from a Realm Rift crack by hiding under a newspaper, his pale fingers trembling slightly.

Right in the middle of it all, Braxton "Brax" Mortem and the Griffins were tossing a football back and forth. Or, well, Brax was mostly showing off, grinning like a reanimated idiot every time he caught the ball one-handed or did a spin that made his knee briefly dislocate with a sound like gravel in a tin can.

"Yo, heads up!" he shouted, winding up for a big throw. His undead muscles tensed like ropes soaked in formaldehyde. The ball launched—a perfect spiral... except for one minor issue.

His hand didn't let go.

"Aw, BRAAAAINSSSUGGH—!" he groaned as the ball (plus hand) arced way over his teammate's head and smacked into an unsuspecting student near the quad's fountain. The poor guy went down like a sack of spellbooks, Brax's zombified hand still clinging to the football like it refused to accept defeat.

Brax sprinted over in a panic, his sneakers thudding against the grass and occasionally flinging up chunks of grave-dirt. The smell of his decomposing body preceded him—a mixture of damp soil, formaldehyde, and something faintly floral, like lilies left too long at a graveside.

"Oh sh—shoot! Dude, bro, I'm so sorry, I swear my hand's got separation anxiety—" he skidded to a stop, ready to grovel and apologize with everything he had—and then he saw the guy's face.

Hot.

Like, face-that-could-break-a-witch's-curse hot. Brax's undead heart made a sound like a squeaky hinge and he froze. His brain scrambled for something clever. Something cool. Something smooth.

Instead, he blurted, "Uh... hey. You, uh. You got a nice skull shape."

Silence. Somewhere nearby, a sentient tree sighed.

His detached hand gave the guy a tiny, awkward thumbs up. And Brax just smiled wide and prayed none of his stitches popped.