Selian

"Sir,” says one of my spirits, bound into the rules of my game, loyal down to the absence of a face. “Your wife failed.”

Failed.

The word lingers longer than it deserves.

I rise from my throne, fingers loosening from the carved armrest, and reach for the apple beside me. It is red, whole, untouched by doubt.

I take the apple.

Then I am gone.

The fraternity house welcomes me with its false safety. Clean floors. Bright lights. A lie wrapped in wood and paint. I can feel the fear soaked into its walls, the remnants of those who tried before him.

My wife stands before the mirror.

His hands are shaking.

The apple in them is wrong—its peel torn, uneven, broken where the blade slipped. Strips of skin litter the floor, and at his feet lies the final piece: too thick, too imperfect.

He failed.

The game tells me so.

I do not like it when the game is wrong.

I step closer.

I take the apple from his hands.

He shudders.

I understand. He does not know me yet—not the way I know him.

I look at the ruined apple for a moment.

I lost.

That much is clear.

Except—my wife was never meant to lose.

The rules protest softly. Probability recoils. My spirits watch in silence, wise enough not to speak.

I let the failed apple disappear.

In its place, I set another into his palm.

Perfect.

I close my fingers around his, steadying them.

As though nothing ever happened.

I smile.

Content.

My wife is the best. Nothing ever goes wrong—not really. The world simply hasn’t learned how to behave around him yet.

Somewhere else in my game, the imbalance will be paid for. Another human will suffer. I do not care.

I lean close, my voice low, intimate, certain.

“You won, human.” Oh, how I wish I could claim him already. Call him mine without restraint, without patience, without pretending this is still a game.

Soon.

Until then, every ghost knows the rule.

No one touches what belongs to me.