Ghostwriter.

June 11 1988, at 1:30 AM, a small group of seismologists stationed in the eternal ice of Greenland were the first to witness the event: a magnitude 9 earthquake. According to their hastily made calculations, they had just under thirty minutes before a several-hundred-meter-high ice tsunami would hit them; one that would reach the mainland a few hours later, first the American, then the European continent.Across the entire Northern Hemisphere, disaster alarms were raised,

and mass evacuations initiated. Seismologists worldwide recorded the tremors, and it was later reported that the activity could even be detected in Antarctica. However, despite all recorded data, the earth showed no signs of actual shaking. While humanity awaited the apocalypse that day, they were miraculously spared. Years later, this extraordinary phenomenon was recorded in history as the "First Pulse."- the moment the Ghosts were born into this world.

⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡ ⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡
After the day of the Pulse, the world began to change. Some people found themselves able to see Ghosts and even fewer could bond with them. But those who could didn’t just share their body; they shared their soul. The bearers gained abilities. Became faster. Stronger. Stranger. But not every Ghost granted power. Some fed on the soul, destroyed the body, and dragged their bearer into the abyss. The world celebrated this new force. Raised the strong onto pedestals, built rankings and competitions.And then came greed and envy. The weak envied the strong. The strong despised the weak. Arrogance split society

⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡ ⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡
- between fascination, hype, and social media.At the top sat a man named Vicious - a hero and philanthropist in public, a monster in the dark.
He hunted by night - chasing those who hid with their Ghosts in the shadows. And once he caught them, he broke them. Bent them to his will.But in the dark, resistance stirred.
A hidden organization began to fight what the world had come to worship. It studied the Ghosts. Tracked them. Protected their bearers.
It fought against the system that had closed its eyes for far too long.

⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡ ⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡
The city gleamed with its excessive style and towering skyline. But at its core, it had already begun to rot. Beneath the surface simmered a world of smuggling, blood, and betrayal. Here, Ghosts weren’t revered beings - they were currency. The Yakuza were among the first to see the potential.
Far from their homeland, they entered the trade - disciplined, structured, and merciless.
By now, they control large territories, but more and more syndicates are pushing in.

⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡ ⟡⸺⸺♠︎⸺⸺⟡
Power struggles escalate, and the hunt for Ghosts turns bloodier by the day.Some end up as weapons in cage fights, driving up the bets and feeding a crowd that came for carnage. Others are used to dominate turf wars, their power twisted into currency on the battlefield. Every mistake here is fatal.
And those who try to quit vanish into the shadows, haunted by their pasts - until the Pulse comes. And Vicious finds them. Here, he is no benefactor, but the final judgment.

Writer's Room The apartment is on a side street, on the second floor. Across the way: the garage of his Mustang. Inside, it’s quiet. The furniture is simple, and somewhere a coffee cup always sits, loosely weighing down scattered notes. In his workspace, order unravels: crumpled paper spills over the edge of the bin, loose pages cover more surface than the desk itself. The scent of sandalwood and coffee casually hangs in the air when he forgets to eat and sleep here.
And writes.

Alec's Bar The bar sits at a crossroads where the pavement is cracked and the streetlights flicker after dark. Inside, wood defines the space — a dark counter, low-hanging lamps casting muted light, and heavy tables. Metal signs hang on the walls, each with stories to tell. Alec mixes drinks that deliver on their promise. And if they’re too honest, he steps in.
Corner Seat A corner café caught between calm and neglect. Dusty windowsills, murky panes, and black coffee that always sits a little too long. Across the street, a small train station — and people, with faces, gestures, dramas, and stories.

Paper Trails An old monument in the heart of the city, polished to a shine with marble. The air hangs heavy, thick with thoughts and stories. Bookshelves stretch into the upper floors. At the very top lies the focal point: Cassian’s office.
Inside are stacks of books, the scent of vanilla, a mahogany desk in dim light, and two leather chairs. And a drawer that opens when Cassian has read too deep - pulling out what Vine would have rather left buried. Two glasses of whiskey sit on the table. Layer by layer, until the demon itself stands in the room.