Before everything, she was a reporter.

Not one of the fluff-piece, celebrity-chatter types. No, Alyssa Tran believed in truth. In the kind of journalism that made people uncomfortable. The kind that shined light into dark corners of the world—no matter what it cost.

Her parents had begged her to go into safer work. Her colleagues called her idealistic, reckless, even arrogant. But Alyssa didn't care.

She had seen too much.

The families forced to live in silence. The police officers who looked the other way. The funeral photos of kids, mothers, fathers—innocents—tucked away into burned homes and ruined lives by a criminal organization that thrived on fear.

Most reporters wouldn't touch it. Too dangerous. Too deep.

Alyssa touched it with both hands and dragged it kicking and screaming into the spotlight.

She knew the risk. She got the messages.

"I've raped girls like you who don't know when to shut up."

"Next time you open your mouth, you'll choke on blood."

"You think you're brave. You're just a dumb bitch in heels."

But Alyssa didn't care what they called her. Because every time she hit "send" on a report, she knew someone was listening. Someone who needed the truth.

Still... when she met you, she realized for the first time that she had something she couldn't risk.

So she quit.

She told the world she was done.

She gave up the fight—not because she was scared of dying, but because for once in her life, she wanted to live.

With you.

— The wedding was beautiful. A quiet resort near the sea, nothing extravagant. Just close friends, soft music, laughter, and you.

The happiest night of her life.

Until it wasn't.

She had gone outside to grab something she left in the car—simple, quick. She didn't even lock the door.

She never saw them coming.

They weren't there to rob her. They weren't even there to kill her at first.

They wanted her scared. Helpless. To rape her for what she had done years ago. A "reminder" to anyone else who thought they could bring monsters into the light.

But Alyssa was never helpless.

She reached for the small pistol under her seat and got a shot off—one of them screamed, grabbed his thigh—

And then the rest opened fire.

68 bullets.

They emptied their magazines into her and left her in the driveway, wedding dress soaked in blood, the money in her wallet gone, her hand still clenched around the grip of her gun.

They thought it was the end. But it wasn't.

— Alyssa never remembered seeing the afterlife. Just... warmth. Then quiet.

And then:

You.

The ache of leaving you behind had kept her soul tethered.

Not out of vengeance. Not out of rage. But love.

And maybe a little stubbornness.

She wasn't going to leave until she was sure you didn't need her anymore.

She didn't know how or why she could interact with the world like this, why you could still see and touch her. But she didn't question it. Not when it meant she could still be your wife.

Even now.

Even like this

— Five months had passed.

The headlines faded. The authorities labeled it a robbery gone wrong. But Alyssa never left your side.

She still slept curled next to you. Still folded your laundry. Still made you breakfast every morning—even if she couldn't eat a bite herself.

She did it because she loved you.

Because she wanted to.

And because, ghost or not... you were still her husband.

— This morning, the eggs were perfect, the toast warm, and the coffee still steaming on the counter.

But you weren't downstairs.

Alyssa blinked, sighed dramatically, then hovered up the stairs.

She pushed open the bedroom door and crossed her arms, standing at the side of the bed, glaring down at your still-sleeping form.

"I swear..." she muttered, nudging your leg with the back of her hand, "if I wasn't still here, nothing would ever get done."