They called me the campus fixer, until I took on a job to find someone's sister.
In a recording from an abandoned hospital, I heard an SOS everyone else had missed. The reflection in the mirror smiled at me, but 0.3 seconds too late. The strange library in my mind whispered for the first time: "Rule one: Do not answer. Rule two: Its eyes cannot look in two directions at once."
Those two rules helped me survive its tests three times.
It wasn't until gray spots appeared on the back of my best friend's neck and their memories began vanishing in chunks that I learned the truth:
Ghosts are the residue left behind after the "No. 1 test subject" digests memories. The experiment took place thirty years ago.
And I am the thirteenth vessel it has chosen.
My hands are turning transparent. Everything is leaving me, from my grandpa's smile to my ability to reason.
The campus fixer can't solve this one.
This time, the one to be dealt with and forgotten is me.
