It’s well after midnight by the time Kwong stumbles into their apartment. They should have known better, the drive from Helba back home often asks for misery. The roads are congested and the heavy smog rolling in from the West blocks any air traffic. It’s too hazardous to fly when the smoke is thick enough to choke you and thin enough to do it silently. 

Instead, Kwong relied on their bike's low hovering mechanic as they moved through the packed streets. Hot air brushing against their ankles, no other company except for the humming of the red machine and the ambient chatter of traffic. 

And the stranger’s voice, ringing in their ear.

​“It’s you, Yeung.”

“You’re the ripple.”

“Ridiculous,” Kwong mutters, as if saying it aloud would persuade them. Kwong gently pushes the door shut with their foot and hears the satisfying click of the lock. They place their keys in the small bowl awaiting them and unbuckles their pack, resting it on the floor there with gentleness. Then the boots, then the jumpsuit, then the folded white layers Kwong wears tight  until there’s nothing left and Kwong finds themself standing under the cold rain of a shower, naked and still desperately attempting to cling to some fleeting thought. 

Their mind refuses to steady. 

The Stranger, Kwong knowing no other way to refer to him, seemed suspicious at most and had a sleeziness to him that felt familiar in the marketplace. The kind of sort that would sell you something neatly packaged at a reasonably high price, only for you to find the expiration date had been scratched off. Only instead of food, it was fortunes, like the elderly women who wander down Third with beads in hand and predictions on their lips. The difference was, in the hazy Helba lights and the darkness of the restaurant, Kwong nearly believed this one.

Maybe it was the effortless smile, maybe it was how the Stranger moved like a cat but settled like a ghost. Whatever it is, the thought shakes Kwong into wakefulness and they quickly finish up and turn off the running water.

By the time they finally settle in bed, Kwong’s body gives way, overwhelmed from the day’s misadventure.  When they awake, the sun has already reached its highest point in the sky. 

There’s tea brewing by the time Kwong manages to make it to work. Abby’s at the only customer desk stationed in the warehouse. She seems to have finished messing with the pinboard, organizing the daily tickets before turning around to face them. She smiles and waves. 

“Hey there, champ!” Abby grins, sitting up to get a better look at them as Kwong kills the engine, parking their bike. She watches as they slide down the seat and make their way over to her. Her expression drops a little the closer Kwong gets.

“Oh,” she says when Kwong reaches the desk. “You don’t look so well.”

“I’m okay,” Kwong sighs, rubbing absentmindedly under their nose. “Just had a fitful night.”

“Your cheeks are pretty red. Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Look—Did we send over the radio already? You know, the order from yesterday?”

Abby perks up, generous enough to allow the subject change. Turning around once more, she plucks a ticket from the board. “Dad did it earlier today, delivered to some fellow in Helba.”

“Was there a name on the commission?” Kwong asks curiously.

Abby squints at the piece of paper in her hands, checking the back to be sure before shaking her head. “Weird, wonder how Dad knew who to deliver it too.”

“You didn’t meet him yesterday. He’s hard to miss.”

Abby looks at Kwong, silent for a moment before pushing the ticket down through a nail. “He must have been interesting–and speaking of interesting work, I’ve got a new job lined up for you.”

“Sounds like only one?”

“Well,” Abby continues, walking around the desk to open up a drawer beside the small stool that resides there. “I was going to give you three, but I don’t think you’ll make it.”

“Abby—I’m fine.”

“Trust me, it’s still a big one.”

Kwong reaches out and plucks the offered ticket from Abby’s hand, bringing it closer to get a better look. For some reason, Kwong’s eyes struggle to focus until Lokra comes into view.

“You live around there, right?” Abby asks, looking up at Kwong from under her lashes. Kwong is unable to read her expression. “Why not do this one and then head home? I’m serious, I feel like I’m talking to a zombie!”

“Point taken,” Kwong gripes, folding the paper. “I’ll get it done. See you tomorrow.”

“Go to bed early!” Abby calls after them. “And drink water!”

Kwong waves her off but follows her advice, picking up some bottled water from a vendor and trucking forward.

THE GHOST, Pt. 1