She let herself drift, completely surrendering to the pull, feeling her weightless form glide through the dense night air like a silent, watchful specter. Beneath her, the city sprawled in shadows and neon lights, its streets alive with the rush and hum of life. a chill spreading outward like ripples on dark water, the crowded streets beneath seeming to shift as though holding their breath. Those she passed shivered, an instinctual dread brushing over them as they glanced around, sensing something yet seeing nothing.For a moment, she savored this dark power "If this happens with me not trying, I wonder what else I can do and can I do something when I find Henry killer"? Then, an invisible thread tugged sharply at her spirit, narrowing her focus to a single point—a face crystallizing in her mind's eye, twisted in a cruel smirk, his eyes dead and cold, the glint of a blade in his hand.Henry's killer. Somewhere in the labyrinth of this city, he was walking free, heart beating in a steady rhythm as though he had done nothing more than crush an insect beneath his heel. The fury ignited anew within her, and with it, her form drifted closer to the street below, as if drawn by the mere thought of him.Is this my life now? she wondered, the weight of eternity pressing down on her. A restless hunt, searching endlessly for a man who could be halfway across the world? Her existence felt like a curse—one she could neither escape nor change.And then she saw it—a faint, green glow across the street, piercing the fog of her thoughts. She turned slowly, her gaze sharpening as she spotted a man in a dark hoodie, his head bowed, and hands tucked into his pockets. But it wasn't his posture or clothing that captured her attention—it was the tattoo encircling his hand, glowing faintly with an unnatural emerald light. Recognition struck her like a bolt of lightning. That tattoo—she'd seen it before, coiling up the arm of the man who had ended her life with a swift, merciless slice.The anger within her roared to life, filling her hollow form with unbearable heat. Her rage pulsed, fierce and raw, awakening a new sensation in her chest. It burned, wild and searing, begging for release. Instinctively, she opened her mouth, letting the feeling pour out, and the sound that erupted from her was not a scream but a horrific wail—a piercing, primal screech that sliced through the night, filling the air with a dreadful chill. The city seemed to recoil again, heads turning, faces marked by confusion as people shuddered, looking around with a vague, unplaceable fear.Snapping out of her trance, she focused on the man in the hoodie. He was now kneeling, his expression softened as he handed a bright, red apple to a young boy standing at his side. The boy's face lit up; eyes wide as he took the apple with a grin. "Thanks, Malik," the boy said, his voice bright and pure in the shadowed night. The man—Malik—reached out to ruffle the boy's hair, a small, almost unseen smile crossing his face as he rose to his feet and continued down the street.She watched him, her anger faltering under a wave of confusion. Could this gentle figure be Henry's killer? The man she remembered was cold and indifferent, his gaze empty of empathy. But this man moved with purpose, his gestures warm, almost kind. And yet, the tattoo—the very symbol she had seen as her life slipped away—was there, inked as clearly as it had been on that fateful night.Conflicted, she drifted closer, still not convinced, watching Malik's every movement as he approached a small, dimly lit store where an elderly woman struggled to reach a bottle on a high shelf. She watched a strange familiarity stirring within her as Malik stepped forward, his hand effortlessly grasping the bottle before the woman could pull a chair over. She smiled at him with gratitude, her voice a whisper of relief. "Thank you, Malik," she said, warm and sincere.Her anger wavered, replaced by a cautious, uncertain quiet. Could I be mistaken? she thought. After being knocked out, her memory of that night had been fragmented, distorted by pain and terror. But that tattoo—she couldn't deny the sharp familiarity of it, vivid as it was that night.She followed Malik as he slipped into a nearby alleyway with a bag he received from the old lady, her ghostly form drifting silently through the shadows, moving closer with each moment "I have to know". She struggled to control her movements, still learning to navigate the spectral pull that felt less like her own will and more like instinct. Yet she felt the truth drawing nearer as if each step brought her closer to unraveling the mystery of her death.In the alley, two figures waited, their shadows elongated against the grimy brick walls. The first was a tall man with a skull-patterned mask that obscured his face, leaving only his eyes visible—cold, empty eyes that chilled her spirit. A tattoo snaked up his wrist and forearm, a twisted image of a scythe etched in black and green ink. Beside him stood a well-built man marked by vibrant Yakuza tattoos covering his arms and neck, glowing faintly with the same emerald light both were not as bright as the hooded man. Across his back and hip were two swords, a katana, and a shorter wakizashi, each angled for swift access. She thought back to Henry, to the nights he would tell her about the art of Japanese swords, their history, and the honor each blade represented—a passion she hadn't fully understood but now clung to in his memory."Why the hell did you go off by yourself?" the masked man snapped at Malik, his voice raspy and cold, the words dripping with irritation.She hovered in the shadows, feeling a surge of clarity, her form steadying as the realization dawned. These men—they all bore the green glow of that distinctive tattoo. They were connected, each one a thread in the web that had tangled around her death. Her gaze drifted back to Malik as she slowly floated around to his face, who met her eyes with a slow, eerie smile, his expression twisting into something darker, more sinister."You know, it's hard for me to stay still," he muttered, his voice low and mocking.The memory of his words—that night, those very words—sent a shock of recognition through her. This was Henry's killer, hidden in a life woven with secrets, entangled in a shadowed world that extended beyond her death.A dark, primal pressure rose within her, filling the hollow spaces left by her anger and grief. She surrendered to it, feeling the sound grow louder, more insistent, rippling out with a haunting force that seemed to echo beyond this realm.As they continued, she drifted closer, the need for vengeance growing within her. She was no longer the woman who watched her fiancée murder, but someone who would bring doom to her killer.