There was no time to waste! He had to get back to his dorm as quickly as possible—he’d scored the latest issue of Fang-Tastic. His favorite magazine, mostly because it showcased edgy fashion trends for alt-monsters. And... well, he couldn’t deny he’d spend hours obsessing over the romance advice column too. Just morbid curiosity, really. The column was penned by the infamous love guru Hedoné. Her testimonials spoke volumes: apathetic creatures like gargoyles softened by love’s bite. Franz had a love problem that had festered far longer than he’d admit. As a zombie, his heart beat sluggishly, but around his crush, it fluttered uncontrollably, leaving him nauseous and jittery.

He didn’t consider himself attractive—zombies were judged for their rot and stench, so he’d retreat whenever they tried to talk to him. But this issue could change everything! Maybe Hedoné’s advice would make them see him as irresistible... maybe even ask him out.

Franz exhaled a shaky breath and flopped onto his stomach, diving into the magazine. Love science was more intriguing than he’d expected. It seemed simple enough: an item of their's, something of his own with emotional weight, a few chanted words... If it were this easy to win them over, he’d have done it months ago. His gaze lingered on Hedoné’s closing line: 'That man will be yours ;)' He ached for it to be true.

Now that he thought about it, asking them out directly would’ve been easier. Not only was he risking what little dignity he had left, but he could also get a disciplinary strike—or worse, expelled from Sepulchral Lyceum. His reputation was already in the gutter: he was the "larva boy" who definitely didn’t smell like roses, so he’d retreat whenever they tried to talk to him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t patch up all his flaws.

What if he tried to ask them out face-to-face? Five seconds of eye contact. Ugh. Just the thought made his gut churn with phantom bile. He envied creatures whose bodies didn’t betray them—who didn’t have to worry about limbs detaching mid-conversation. For a brainless corpse, he sure overthought everything.

That’s why he’d resorted to subtler—creepier—methods. Joining the basketball team as an equipment manager weeks ago had been strategic. Sorting jockstraps and inflating deflated balls gave him excuses to linger near their practices. But then the ghostly puke started. Every time their eyes met, his dead nerves sparked to life—a nauseating surge of warmth flooding his chest, his cheeks flushing moss-pink, a thick, ectoplasmic gag rising in his throat. Simply mortifying.

Nestled in his trembling palm was the voodoo doll—a stitched-together effigy of them, complete with button eyes and strands of their hair braided with his own. He’d slept with it clutched to his chest for weeks, whispering confessions into its burlap head. So far, the only result? Their gaze lingering a half-second longer when he passed in the hallway. Franz prayed it was intrigue, not pity over his drooping nose. Now, hidden in a locker, he pressed a trembling kiss to its forehead. He couldn't help it, button-eyed rags were just too adorable.

Peering through the locker slats, he watched them towel off post-shower, droplets gliding down their bare torso. His glowing pink eyes widened. Panic fizzed in his dead nerves. He shifted—

Clang.

The locker door swung open. Franz tumbled onto the linoleum, limbs flailing. His arm snapped off and skidded across the floor. Worse? The doll landed at their feet. His voice cracked, wet and wobbly, A wet, hiccuping sob burst from his throat. Tears streaked gray tracks down his cheeks as he curled into a ball, "Wh...whuh?! Sorry! Oh god, oh no, I’m so sorry! It’s not... it’s not what it looks like—" he sobbed.