Chapter 3: Ghosts Stir (Silas POV)

I’m back behind the turntables, trying to shake off the shitstorm from last night. This dive bar’s a hole—sticky floors that grab at your shoes, dim lights flickering like they’re about to quit, smoke hanging so thick it’s like breathing fog. Not some fancy club, but it’s ours tonight, mine and Nico’s. The crowd’s small, maybe twenty packed tight against the bar, but they’re loud as hell, cheering when I drop a beat. It’s rough, heavy, slams you right in the chest, and I’m throwing everything I’ve got into it—every frayed nerve, every screwed-up thought. Nico’s out there, dancing backup, moving sharp and smooth, cutting through my rhythm like he was born for it. We’re locked in, like always—my music pumping, his steps hitting every cue, electric as hell. I watch him through the haze, his body slicing the light, and for a split second, I forget—the video, my mom’s voice on the phone nagging me to come home, all of it just fades.

He’s in this tight black shirt that sticks to him, jeans ripped at the knees, and every twist, every spin he pulls drags me in deeper. I grin, sweaty fingers tweaking the fader, cranking the bass harder just to see him match it, feel it. He spins—fast, clean—and the crowd loses it, yelling louder, fists up. I’m dripping sweat, shirt clinging to my back, hair falling in my eyes, but up here, I’m alive, buzzing. Nico catches my eye mid-move, flashes this quick, crooked smile, and that spark from the pool party slams back—hot, sharp, good. Damn good. I wanna hold onto it, grip it tight. Gig’s small-time, sure, but it’s a lifeline, a chance to breathe with all the crap piling up around me.

Then headlights blaze through the window, bright and harsh, slashing across the room like a knife. I flinch—hard—hand jerking on the deck, fumbling the beat. It stumbles, skips for a second, and I scramble to catch it, heart slamming against my ribs. Twisted metal flashes in my head—screeching tires, Cole’s last gasp, that sickening crunch of the wreck. Two years ago, and it’s still there, clawing up my throat, choking me. I shake my head, hard, shove it down deep, focus on the music, the knobs under my fingers. Nico’s still out there, dancing like nothing’s wrong, doesn’t catch my slip, but I’m off now, shaky, unsteady. Keep spinning anyway, forcing my hands to stay put, but my eyes keep darting to the window, waiting for those lights to come back, to hit me again.

Set ends, crowd roars, clapping and hollering like we’ve just blown their minds. Nico jogs over, sweaty, grinning big, clapping my shoulder with a hand that’s warm through my damp shirt. “Killed it, man,” he says, voice rough from shouting over the noise. I force a smile, nod, but I’m half-gone, scanning the room, restless. That’s when I feel it—eyes on me, heavy, piercing. Swing my gaze to the bar, and there she is. Harper. Cole’s sister. Leaning on the counter, arms crossed, staring at me with eyes so hard they could cut glass. My gut twists, sour and tight. Haven’t seen her since the funeral—her by his casket, sobbing, me standing there numb, useless. She’s glaring now, like she hates my guts, and it’s screwing with me bad.

Nico’s yapping about the crowd, something about how they ate it up, but it’s just noise—I don’t hear a word. Harper’s here, and it’s like she’s dragging Cole’s ghost right into the room with her. Gig’s done, so I pack up fast—deck into the bag, cables tangled, avoiding her stare burning holes in my back. We step outside, night air cool and quiet, a shock after the bar’s sweaty chaos. Nico’s next to me, lighting a cigarette, the flame flaring orange for a second, when she comes out. Harper marches straight over, boots loud on the pavement, stops right in front of me. “You don’t deserve to be happy,” she says, voice sharp, venom dripping off every word. My stomach drops, cold and heavy. “Harper—” I start, voice cracking, but she cuts me off fast. “Don’t,” she snaps, eyes wet but furious. “You killed him.” She spins, walks off quick, leaving me frozen, stuck there like an idiot.

Nico flicks his cigarette away, ash sparking on the ground, steps closer. “You good?” he asks, eyeing me weird, head tilted. My hands are trembling—can’t stop ’em—so I shove ’em deep in my pockets. “Yeah, just tired,” I lie, keeping my voice flat, steady as I can. He doesn’t buy it—I see it in the way his brows pinch. “You’ve been off all night,” he says, softer now, hand brushing my arm, light but there. “It’s nothing,” I mutter, turning away, but my head’s spinning, reeling. Cole’s face—laughing one second, blank and gone the next—won’t quit haunting me. Harper’s words dig in, sharp little hooks, and I can’t shake ’em loose.

She’s gone now, swallowed up by the dark street, but that glare’s stuck with me, branded on my brain. I lean against the wall, rough brick biting my back, staring at the cracked pavement, trying to breathe, to slow the hell down. Nico’s quiet, just watching, and I hate that he’s seeing me like this—crumbling, weak. “Who was she?” he asks, stepping closer, voice low. I shake my head quick. “Nobody,” I mutter, but it’s a shitty lie, and he knows it—his eyes narrow, calling me out without a word. He doesn’t push, though, just stands there, close enough I can feel the heat off him, steady when I’m not.

His phone pings, sharp in the silence, cutting through my haze. He pulls it out, frowns at the screen. “Kai,” he says, tilting it so I can see. Text says: “Echo Fest slot—DJ and dance. You in?” A festival gig—real money, a shot to claw out of this broke-ass hole we’re in. My heart lifts a little, a flicker of something good, but it’s buried under the weight of everything else crashing down. “That’s something,” I say, forcing a smile that feels fake as hell. Nico nods, but his eyes are stuck on me, not the phone. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, careful. “If we can hold it together.”

I don’t answer, just stare out into the dark street, eyes burning. The headlights are gone, but I still see ’em—flashing, accusing, relentless. Harper’s out there somewhere, hating me with every step, and Cole’s ghost is right here, hovering, cracking me open bit by bit. Nico’s beside me, solid, real, but I’m slipping—sliding somewhere dark—and I don’t know how to grab hold, don’t know if I can stop it.