LOGINMarcus Webb didn't believe in ghosts. It was not until he woke up in Prometheus House with no memory of how he got there and met the devastatingly beautiful man who claims to be his roommate. Silas Ashford is perfect. Too perfect. He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, and casts no reflection in mirrors. When Marcus discovers a photograph from 1924 showing Silas standing beside a man who looks exactly like him, the truth becomes impossible to deny. Silas is a ghost, bound to the facility for a hundred years, waiting for someone he can't remember. Marcus is a tech billionaire who died six months ago in a car accident, his body in a coma, his soul trapped in the between. They were lovers in a past life. Michael and Silas, 1924. They died in a fire trying to escape an abusive sanatorium. Michael survived long enough to reincarnate. Silas has been waiting ever since. Now, the facility's sinister director, a reaper who feeds on trapped souls will do anything to keep them apart. The building is collapsing, and time is running out. Marcus must choose: wake up and live, forgetting Silas forever, or stay and risk losing everything. To free Silas, Marcus will have to destroy the anchors binding him to this world, confront the creature born from their shared tragedy, and burn Prometheus House to the ground a second time. Some love stories survive death. He's not real, But he's mine, and I'll set the world on fire to keep him.
View MoreMarcus spent the rest of the afternoon in his room, staring at the photograph until the faces blurred into abstraction. Silas hadn't returned. The bed across from his remained perfectly made, untouched, as if no one had slept there in years. Maybe no one had. Maybe ghosts didn't disturb sheets or leave impressions in pillows. Or just maybe they just existed in the spaces between things, half-there and half-gone, waiting for someone to remember them back into solidity.His hands wouldn't stop shaking.By the time dusk bled through the windows, turning the fog outside into something bruised and purple, Marcus couldn't stand the silence anymore. He needed people. Real people. Living, breathing humans who existed in mirrors and had pulses and didn't speak in riddles about integration, authenticity and remembering who you really are.The common room on the second floor was larger than the dining hall, with overstuffed couches arranged around a stone fireplace and bookshelves lining the wal
Marcus found Dr. Cross in his office on the third floor, behind a door made of frosted glass etched with the Prometheus House logo of a phoenix rising from flames. The symbolism wasn't lost on him. It symbolised rebirth, transformation, and rising from the ashes of whatever had broken you enough to land you here.He knocked once and entered without waiting for permission.The office was nothing like the sterile luxury of the rest of the facility. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, shelves crammed with leather-bound books that looked older than they had any right to be. A massive desk dominated the space, its surface cluttered with files and an antique fountain pen that gleamed in the light from a Tiffany lamp. Behind the desk, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the fog-wrapped redwoods, making the forest look like something from a dream.Dr. Evander Cross sat with his back to the door, facing the windows. He didn't turn around when Marcus entered."Mr. Webb." His voice was smooth, cultu
The lights came back on.Marcus stood frozen in the center of the room, pulse hammering against his throat. Silas remained exactly where he'd been, cross-legged on his bed, book open in his lap. His silver eyes tracked Marcus with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world. "What did you just call me?" Marcus's voice came out strangled."I didn't call you anything." Silas turned a page without looking down at it. "The power surged. This is an old building. It happens all the time.""You said Michael.""Did I?" Silas tilted his head, his expression infuriatingly neutral. "I don't recall."Marcus wanted to cross the room and shake him. He wanted to grab those slim shoulders and demand answers until Silas's calm exterior fractured and the truth spilled out. Instead, he dug his nails into his palms, feeling the sharp bite of pain ground him."You're lying.""Maybe." Silas closed the book, setting it aside with deliberate care. "Or maybe you heard what you needed to hear."
Marcus didn't leave his room for the rest of the day. He sat on the edge of the bed, turning the photograph over and over in his hands until the edges softened further beneath his thumbs. The silver-eyed man stared back at him, unchanging, patient, like he'd been waiting a century for Marcus to finally ask the right questions.*Prometheus, 1924.*The words made no sense. The photograph made no sense. Marcus made no sense, sitting in a sterile luxury room with no memory of how he'd gotten here, clutching a picture of himself that shouldn't exist.He should have been panicking, and demanding answers, pounding on the door until someone explained what kind of sick psychological experiment this was. Instead, he felt hollowed out, like someone had scooped out his insides and left only the shell.When the nurse returned hours later with a tray of food he didn't touch, she informed him in that same unnervingly pleasant voice that he'd been assigned a roommate."A roommate?" Marcus's voice cam
The ceiling was pristine white, and unmarked by water stains, cracks or the fingerprints of time. Marcus stared at it, his breath shallow, pulse ticking at his throat like something trapped beneath skin. The air smelled wrong and sterile, with lavender and lemon polish masking something medicinal u
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