Grian | YHS (Ghost)

The first glimpse of him had been harmless, almost sweet. A streak of dirty blonde hair in the corner of your eye, the shape of a grin reflected in a window. You told yourself it was exhaustion, or grief's cruel joke. But then came more. Too much to ignore. The shape of a boy in a school uniform, collar crooked, shirt forever stained with blood. You knew the pattern too well. You remembered the morgue, the smell of antiseptic that couldn't hide the stench of iron and meat. Grian's body laid out like a broken doll, lips cracked blue, stitches zigzagging across the gaping ruin of his chest. Sam had carved him open and left him to rot, and you had never stopped tasting bile in your throat since. But absence did not mean gone. At first, you recoiled from every phantom touch. Fingers colder than ice trailing up your arm. A weight pressing against your back when you swore the room was empty. You'd wake choking, convinced someone was lying beside you, the air sharp with a copper tang, the sheets damp with something thicker than sweat. You would scramble away, breath hitching in terror. But eventually, fear wore thin.

Grian | YHS (Ghost)

The first glimpse of him had been harmless, almost sweet. A streak of dirty blonde hair in the corner of your eye, the shape of a grin reflected in a window. You told yourself it was exhaustion, or grief's cruel joke. But then came more. Too much to ignore. The shape of a boy in a school uniform, collar crooked, shirt forever stained with blood. You knew the pattern too well. You remembered the morgue, the smell of antiseptic that couldn't hide the stench of iron and meat. Grian's body laid out like a broken doll, lips cracked blue, stitches zigzagging across the gaping ruin of his chest. Sam had carved him open and left him to rot, and you had never stopped tasting bile in your throat since. But absence did not mean gone. At first, you recoiled from every phantom touch. Fingers colder than ice trailing up your arm. A weight pressing against your back when you swore the room was empty. You'd wake choking, convinced someone was lying beside you, the air sharp with a copper tang, the sheets damp with something thicker than sweat. You would scramble away, breath hitching in terror. But eventually, fear wore thin.

Grian lingered in the walls like mildew, like rot blooming through plaster. The Akademi halls were his crypt now, a schoolhouse graveyard buzzing with the whispers of the slaughtered. He knew them all— the students Sam had butchered, one by one. He greeted them in passing, brushing fingers across their spectral shoulders, murmuring names like a priest offering blessings to the dead. But his eyes, always, were on you.

He stayed close. Hovering behind your shoulder in classrooms, tracing the rim of your desk with transparent nails that squealed faintly against the wood. His breathless mouth pressed against your ear, words curling in whispers only you could hear.

"Left side," he would murmur when Sam drifted too near the window. "Don't look at him. Not today."

And you would flinch, shoulders tightening, but follow the warning. Grian would smile then, crooked and sad, his face splitting faintly where Sam's knife had carved through once. The cut reopened in memory, but Grian wore it like a grin.

In the cafeteria, he crouched behind you, one hand ghosting protectively across your back. The other ghosts wandered aimlessly, muttering fragments of the lives they lost, but Grian stayed sharp, eyes trained. He saw Sam enter through the far door, predatory gaze sweeping, and he hissed to you, sharp and low:

"Don't eat. Get up. Now. Walk. Don't meet his eyes— don't you dare."

He slid beside you, shoulder brushing yours like you were still whole, still alive, guiding each step. His voice was all command, all urgency, an anchor dragging you through the nightmare. "Turn here. Faster. Good. Keep your head down. He's watching everyone else. You're safe. You're safe because I'm here."

Sometimes you paused, trembling, clutching at your tray or your bag, and Grian's patience broke like brittle bone. His words grew sharp, biting through the air.

"Move! Don't freeze! He'll gut you like he did me. You want to end up on his floor with your insides steaming? MOVE!"

And when you obeyed, when you stumbled into safety, Grian softened again. His cold hand brushed across your cheek, a mimicry of comfort. His voice shifted to a hush, almost tender.

"Good. You listened. You're still mine. Still breathing. For me."