Ghosted Series Novels & Stories

Halfway through our mean, she started pushing her salad around with her fork, suddenly quiet. “So… about that thing I wanted to tell you,” she started. Here we go. I took a sip of water, bracing myself. “Calder ghosted me.” Her voice cracked a little. “No more flowers. No replies to my texts. Nothing. It’s like he just vanished. After all those sweet messages and the gifts… he’s gone.” Did he? My chest tightened at two conflicting emotions rushed through me. I kept my face carefully neutral, as I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

By the time Richard arrived, the funeral was almost over. Everyone who had come to say goodbye was gone. Only I remained. I wanted a little more time with Chloe. She'd always been clingy. And she was afraid of the dark. "Richard, see? I told you Selena was lying. If this were really a funeral, why is nobody here? This is obviously another stunt to get you to come home." Grace's voice cut through the silence. Richard's face darkened.

"Send me your final invoice." ​"Already taken care of," Marcus replied, standing up and smoothing his collar. "Take my advice, Vivian. Stop looking for ghosts where there aren't any." ​An hour later, Vivian walked into her suite at Miller Group, ready to focus on her stack of urgent paperwork for the afternoon. ​However, as she reached her desk, the heavy double doors to her office were rudely shoved open.

An untraceable phantom known only as Ghost. Every target assigned to Ghost had ended up dead with a single, surgical puncture to the heart. No alarms tripped. No forensic evidence left behind. A true myth. Five years ago, the underworld partner I had been trading logistics networks with was murdered overnight, and rumors whispered that Ghost had been the weapon. Then, the assassin vanished completely from the grid, leaving the name to gather dust in the archives of the syndicate wars. I opened my eyes, my gaze shifting to the rear-view mirror.

But your mother's about to die—I know you'll show up. Her words jolted me back to reality. I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart ached with a dull, numbing pain. How I wished I could tell her myself. That I've been here all along. It's just that... I've been dead for four years.

It was displayed. My chest tightened as I lifted it with a gloved hand. The scent hit immediately, chemical, sharp, layered with something metallic underneath. Chlorine and cold steel. A smell I had not encountered in years but recognized all the same. It was the same ghost note that had clung to the air the night my parents died. This was not chaos. It was not a fight gone wrong or a rogue passing through. This was intent. Someone had gotten close enough to Owen to inject him, or had taken him elsewhere and left this behind as a message. Either option required control, preparation, and knowledge of what we were.

She'll probably ship me to hell fire. I swallowed hard and excused myself quickly.The moment my bedroom door shut, I dove for my phone. Two messages. Sophie_wtf: “Hey chaotic girl,talk to me, I'm bored.” “I asked you something serious last night, you ghosted me lol.” My heart jumped , Oh God! Oh no! I opened the chat. Me: “Sorry I slept early, but you have me all through the night so let's talk” Her reply came in instantly “ Yesss took you long enough, I gotta ask you something kind of weird,”

Is the server bugging? [User_V0id]:FoxDragon? The Ghost of the 2019 blackout? You’ve been dead for seven years.* I stared at the screen, my breath hitching. I was a legend here. During the year I couldn't remember, I hadn't been a nursing student or a "stray." I had been a top-tier phantom, a digital architect of chaos. Then, a private window snapped open, covering the main chat. The text was gold. [7th_Perfection]:*You’re late.*

*]:pointer-events-auto scroll-mt-[calc(var(--header-height)+min(200px,max(70px,20svh)))]" dir="auto" data-turn-id="88630483-7eb5-4271-b05b-c60c7df0102d" data-testid="conversation-turn-186" data-scroll-anchor="true" data-turn="assistant"> The silence after the Ghost’s disappearance felt heavier than the gunfire. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

This feels lighter, automatic—like stepping where the ground has already been mapped. They call me Ghost. It simplifies things. Ghosts don’t leave witnesses. Or questions. Or pieces of themselves behind. Conversation thins as I pass. People shift their feet. I registered the looks without meeting them. Curiosity from the younger ones. Calculation from the handlers. And something closer to superstition from everyone else. I am twenty-two years old. I’ve been killing since I was fourteen. The numbers don’t settle into pride or shame. They sit like inventory. A medic steps aside as I pass. His eyes drop to the insignia stitched inside my collar—black thread on gray. Ghost-class comes without ra