The Ghost Who Died For Him

Elliot broke away from Dolly's kiss, his eyes hollow and strange.

He hurriedly muttered something about needing to take a call and left the room, leaving Dolly with a trace of a satisfied smile on her lips, even if it was still part of her act.

His sudden departure confused me. He was playing the role of the devoted fiancé, yet internally, he radiated tension and unease.

He walked straight to the cold, sterile men's restroom in the hospital, splashing cold water on his face over and over again.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his gaze burning, almost panicked.

He looked... haunted. Not just tired, but deeply, fundamentally disturbed.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke billowing around him, then pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen.

"Any news on Kayla?" His voice was low. "Don't tell me you've hit another dead end. I need her! Dolly's condition is getting worse. We're running out of time!"

He punched the tiled wall.

The person on the other end must have given him an unsatisfactory answer, because Elliot's face contorted in rage.

He hurled the phone across the room, watching it shatter against the wall.

He was like a dark storm cloud, gathering ominous energy.

He strode back toward Dolly's room, only to see a doctor walking out with a grim expression.

"Mr. Moon, Ms. Haynes's condition has taken a sharp downturn. Her heart is failing rapidly. We need that donor, and we need her now."

Elliot rushed into the room.

Dolly was weeping silently, tears tracking down her cheeks as her hands clutched tightly at her chest.

"Elliot," she sobbed, blindly reaching out to grab him. "I'm scared. I don't want to die. Don't let me leave you." Her words were full of desperate pleading, yet they felt like a meticulously performed display of vulnerability.

He rushed to her side, pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly. "No, Dolly, no. You're not going anywhere. I won't let you go." His voice choked up, carrying a genuine fear and concern for her.

"I will find Kayla. I promise you, I will bring her back. She will save you." His words sent a chill down my spine.

Elliot left the hospital, the fierce glint reignited in his eyes.

He drove straight back to the desolate warehouse where Jaron was being held.

In his hand was a whip, the leather gleaming ominously in the dim light.

At the sight of it, my spectral form was once again gripped by terror.

He found Jaron, who was still slumped on the floor, bleeding but conscious.

"Last chance, Jaron," Elliot growled, his voice thick with menace. "Where is Kayla?"

Jaron slowly lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot, his face covered in bruises.

"She's dead, Elliot," he repeated, his voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper. "She died for you. That is the truth."

Elliot gritted his teeth.

"Lies! All lies!" The whip cracked through the air, landing heavily on Jaron's back with a dull thud.

My brother screamed, his body arching in agony.

Elliot raised the whip again, his face a mask of cold fury, and delivered another brutal lash.

With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of Jaron's bloody back, and sent it off.

Moments later, the door was shoved open.

Mom, my frail, heartbroken mother, stumbled in. Her hair was a mess, her eyes bloodshot, her face streaked with tears and dirt.

She looked like a ghost herself; the vibrant woman she used to be was now nothing but a shadow.

My heart—or what was left of it—twisted in agony.

Elliot looked at her, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Look what the cat dragged in. The grief-stricken mother. Are you finally going to tell me where your selfish daughter is hiding?"

Mom's gaze fell upon Jaron's tortured form. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken.

She let out a silent whimper. Then, trembling, she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and threw it at Elliot's feet. Her eyes were filled with absolute despair.

"Here," she whispered, her voice raspy. "You'll find her here. Stop hurting Jaron. Stop hurting everyone." She fought back sobs, her shoulders shaking violently.

Elliot looked down at the paper, then back up at Mom, a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

He bent down, picked up the note, and narrowed his eyes at the hastily scrawled address.

"This better not be another one of your pathetic tricks," he warned softly, his tone dangerous. He glanced at his men. "Grab her. She's coming with us. Let's see if her 'truth' is actually real."

Mom didn't fight back, letting them drag her away roughly.

Elliot got into his sleek black sedan, clutching the piece of paper tightly, his thumb mindlessly tracing the crease.

A suffocating silence filled the car as they sped through the city streets.

The car finally came to a stop—not at a bustling port or an airport, but at the gates of a quiet, sprawling cemetery.

Mom was yanked roughly from the car and pushed to the ground.

"This is it," she murmured, her voice so faint it was barely a whisper, choking on her words. "Kayla is here."

Elliot stepped out, his eyes sweeping over the solemn rows of tombstones.

He looked at Mom, then at the graveyard, a cold sneer forming on his lips. He spotted a simple headstone bearing a black-and-white photograph. It was me.

He let out a laugh of pure disbelief.

"A cemetery? You're telling me she's dead? This is your grand scheme? You want me to believe she's buried here?" He kicked the dirt next to the headstone. "Are we supposed to dig her up now? Is that the plan?"

His tone dripped with bitter sarcasm, every word laced with contempt.

Mom sat slumped on the ground. She looked up at him, her eyes burning with a fierce, heartbreaking conviction.

"It's the truth, Elliot," she said, her voice stronger than before, tinged with a soul-tearing agony. "She's dead. She's been dead for three years. She died for you."

Elliot's face flushed crimson with rage.

He shoved Mom hard, sending her sprawling onto the damp grass.

"Liar!" he roared. "She's not dead! She couldn't be! She's out there right now, living her selfish life, having abandoned me!"

Just then, his phone rang again, snapping him out of his furious tirade.

He snatched the phone, his breathing ragged.

"What is it?" he barked into the receiver.

Then, his eyes—still burning with fury—suddenly went wide. A faint, barely perceptible smile grazed his lips.

"You found a lead on her? You found Kayla?"

He looked at Mom, a flash of triumphant, cruel light in his eyes.

"See? I told you she was still alive. I was always going to find her."

He turned back to the phone, and the triumphant smile on his face slowly froze.

The words from the other end hit him like a physical blow. The color drained from his face in an instant.

His hand began to tremble. He slowly pulled the phone away from his ear as if it were a venomous snake.

His subordinate's words echoed in the sudden silence, tolling like a death knell in the graveyard air.

"Sir... the information is confirmed. Kayla Ashley... she's dead. She passed away three years ago."