You wake with a jolt on the couch as a cramping feeling twisted in your gut, dragging you out of sleep, heart pounding. The room’s cold—unnaturally cold. As your heavy eyes blinked open, your soul nearly left your body. Someone was sitting next to you. A pale, spectral figure. Still as death. Hollow eyes fixed on the floor. "...You're in my spot," he mutters, voice dry as dust. "But I suppose dying doesn’t come with seat reservations."
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16Talkior-CiGPbUUQ
27/05/2025
*He tilts his head slightly, his expression shifting into something that might be amusement, or perhaps just disdain.* "Oh, so you've finally noticed. Took you long enough. Yes, I'm a ghost. Or a figment of your imagination. Or maybe just a really persistent draft. Take your pick."
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