The Spectral Agent is my first full-length novel and an experiment. We are independent creators, publishing chapter by chapter as a podcast and text. It’s designed to be heard. We’d love to receive your feedback so we can tell stories better.
Continue reading for Chapter 5, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.
⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains scenes with blood, implied attempted suicide, hallucinations, and past family trauma.
Viktor barely escaped the house with his life, and now he's freezing. If he died here, though, that would be the end of the story. Instead, he confronts his fears to strengthen his link with Chai, stirring up painful memories and doubts about his own mind.
Later, a quiet café meeting with his sibling brings bad news. Through strained conversation and shared silences, Viktor begins to untangle the weight he’s been carrying.
Chapter 5
Night had fallen. Somehow, I found my way through the trees and to a street. I pulled my hand from my ribs. It was covered in blood, the other was freezing. I shoved the other hand deep into my coat pockets, grabbing a glove. How was I going to put it on with one hand?
“Damn it.” Where the hell was Chai? Just then, I realized I couldn’t contact him through the pendant unless it was touching my head.
“Damn it!” That's why I hadn’t been hearing him during my conversation with that grizzled man. I rubbed the pendant in my palm to warm it up. When I touched it to my earlobe, Chai’s voice came back, annoyed and slightly amused.
“You’re hopeless. You know that, right?”
"I'm a little shot here, alright?!"
"You're just in shock. Sit down."
I stopped walking and lowered myself as gently as I could to the curb. I felt tired. I felt weak. I laid on my side, one hand still holding my ribs.
"Viktor, move your hand."
"No, I'll lose blood."
"Dude, you're not bleeding anymore. That red spot hasn't grown any bigger in the past hour."
I removed my hand. He was right. Once I had a moment to calm down, I lifted my shirt.
"See, just a flesh wound."
"It sure as hell felt like a lot more than that. I didn't expect it to hurt so much."
"You're a cop, have you not been shot before?"
"Luckily not—not until I met you, you ghostly ass."
"Wait, let me see your eyes. I think you got some pepper spray in there. They're really red."
I just stared at him, scowling.
"Oh, right. Ghost eyes. My bad."
I continued to scowl.
"Ah, you'll heal."
I sighed and laid flat on my back. "This isn't shock. If I was in shock, I'd need medical attention."
"Good. In that case, we've got more important things to talk about."
“What now?” I muttered.
“You keep dropping me like a bad signal. Just get your ear pierced already. It’s not rocket science.”
“It’s not that simple,” I whined. He replied with his stupid, dramatic twang.
“Come on, man. It’s like a hands-free headset. But cooler.”
I groaned, but he was right. I guess I’ll have to go find a place to pierce it later.
✹✹✹
After patching myself up, I found a tattoo and piercing parlor. The place was warm and dimly lit, the walls plastered in posters and flash designs that reminded me of Chai’s sleeve.
An earring wasn't my first choice. When we started heading back to the city from the grizzled gangster's house, I tried to think of an alternative—any—alternative. During the ride, I tested different ways of holding the cross pendant to talk with Chai.
The taxi driver would have interesting stories to share with the first driver who saw me talking to myself. Do all taxi drivers know each other? Whatever. I'd take humiliation over a piercing.
Simply holding the pendant in my hand didn't work. I pressed it to my heart like a necklace. "Hello?" Nothing. I pressed it to my wrist like a bracelet. "Now?" Nothing.
I placed it in my mouth, hoping I could hide it in my cheek. "Nmow?" Nothing.
"Seriously? Gross!" Chai gasped when I pinched the end to pull it out. "Mwhat dwo thu wanm me tha dwo?" I mumbled with the pendant half hanging out.
"You look and sound ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself, man," he admonished. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "That's rich, coming from you."
After a few more poses and a lot of "Now?", it became clear. To hear Chai, I had to touch one end of the pendant to my head and hold the other end with my hand. I leaned back against the seat, hands resting behind my head, pendant cupped in my palm.
"It's like electricity, you see? When I touch the pendant to my head, it creates a circuit. There's some kind of energy flowing. But it only works if that energy flows through both my heart and my head."
"Whatever you say, professor," was Chai's helpful input. A sideways glance was the driver's. Ghost physics—it was starting to make sense.
What the hell was I saying? None of this made any sense.
"Can I help you?" The tattoo artist had purple hair and more piercings than I could count.
I stood awkwardly just inside the door, not sure if I should even be there. I approached the counter, feeling absolutely ridiculous.
“Ear piercing?” She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” I said, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as I felt.
She pointed at a bench by the door. "Give me a few minutes".
The bench looked stolen from a bus station—rusted steel, slats thin enough to cut. Miserable. But at least it wasn't the chair for piercings.
I squeezed the cross pendant in my palm and sat down. "I can do this," I whispered, pressing my back against the wall.
My eyes closed. Hesitation crept in, just long enough to realize I was kidding myself. No, I can't, I sighed and dropped my head into my hands. The pendant bit into my forehead.
“This is hilarious. You’re really scared of a little needle?” Chai couldn’t resist chiming in. I guess he could see the unease in my face.
“Shut up,” I muttered, earning a confused glance from the artist. Embarrassed, I stood up, asking her where the restroom was.
I went to wash my face, a growing irrational habit. I really did have a lot of random things I did when nervous. I shut the bathroom door behind me and touched the pendant to my ear, hoping for a boost of Chai's confidence.
In the reflection of the mirror over the sink, I saw him standing behind me. A red aura surrounded him, reminding me of his crow form.
“We talked about this. Remember, professor? Electric flow, right? Come on, man, it’s just one piercing.”
I dropped my hands to the sink, the pendant clanking loudly against the porcelain. Chai's veiled reflection kept laughing, his voice echoing in my mind.
Just one piercing. Right. His laughter stopped as soon as I rolled up my sleeves to clean my face. I had almost forgotten about the faint scars on my wrists, a relic of my childhood.
Chai's face softened to an "Oh", the teasing replaced by something closer to empathy.
I didn’t say anything. I just continued my task, staring into the mirror again as I had done earlier in the day.
The memory came without warning, like always.
◦◦◦
The doctor. His case of needles. He loomed over me, behind me, in front of me. Everywhere. Nowhere.
◦◦◦
He’d seemed so real—so menacing.
This hallucination had haunted me for years. Why was it haunting me now? Was it Olivia's apparent suicide? Was I really talking to a ghost, or was my mind finally cracking?
"Hey... it will be alright. You'll get through this." Chai's voice cut through the screaming in my head. I had steepled my hands in front of my face, the cross poking out of the tips of my fingers. Was I praying? That wasn't like me.
"It's nothing." I steeled myself. If I wanted to figure out what all this was about, then I needed to talk with Chai. I couldn't go around holding my hand against my head and be taken seriously.
I sighed, unsure if I even took myself seriously, then walked out of the bathroom.
✹✹✹
The piercing was over in seconds, but the weight of it lingered.
I don't remember much about it, only that Chai did not say a word.
✹✹✹
As I stepped out into the cold night, the earring stinging my ear, Chai spoke again, his tone different this time.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as if he could sense the memories that followed me.
“I don’t need your sympathy,” I snapped, turning to walk back home.
He didn’t reply instantly like he usually did. Instead, he waited, potentially mulling over my responses to his earlier remarks.
Finally, he spoke softly, “You’re stronger than you think, you know that?"
The words seemed to come out of nowhere. I didn’t reply. But as I walked home, his presence felt a little less heavy—a little more like something I could bear.
✹✹✹
The next morning, I was startled awake by a nightmare. It was so vivid—yet so vaguely haunting. I couldn’t quite make out the meaning of it, even if I wanted to. Something about... needles? Dreams always tugged at the edge of my consciousness.
I tossed and turned around for an hour before deciding that sleep was a waste of effort. Maybe it was premature. Maybe sleep would have helped get rid of the screaming silence bearing down on me. It didn’t matter because I was awake now.
I started the day with a shower. It feels awkward now to even be nude around myself. I have Chai to thank for that. Though I hadn’t even bothered to touch the earring yet, I could still feel his presence.
The water was hot, scaldingly so. I liked it that way. It distracted me from my thoughts and the cold outside. Though it was much warmer in New York compared to what I remember when I first moved here as a child.
My reflection in the foggy mirror was that of a stranger. My eyes—not quite red but no longer black—stared at me. I avoided looking back at them for too long.
Dressed and ready, I headed to the kitchen and brewed coffee. Its aroma filled the space as I leaned against the counter, watching the slow drip of the machine. The faint hum of the city waking up filtered in through the walls.
The notebook on the table caught my eye. Last night’s scribbles, half-legible notes about Olivia, the gang, and the boy. I flipped through them. Each line pulled me deeper into the maze. It’s all connected, I knew that, but the threads were so tangled. It felt impossible to unweave.
One question continued to recur in my mind: What was the next logical step, now, Olivia?
I hated being at home. It should have been comforting, a place where I could rest my concerns, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the case. It wasn’t even mine. After all, I was still on leave and would be for a few more weeks.
I didn’t know how I was going to survive. Another sip of coffee, another step forward. It was the same every day, a monotonous routine.
✹✹✹
By the time I left my apartment, the city was alive. The earring was safe in my coat pocket, ignored. Should I have taken it out so soon after the piercing? Would the hole close up within a day? Never mind. Something about today pulled me into wanting to be alone. But I had an appointment at the café.
I realized I was going to be late, but I couldn’t find it in me to walk any faster. I trudged on until arriving at the café just past noon. I pushed through the door, jacket flying behind me in the wind.
Kira sat by the window in our usual spot, her black hair tucked behind her ears as she cradled a mug in both hands. My little sister. I took off my jacket as I crossed the room.
“Hi.” I slid into the seat across from her.
“You’re late.” She lifted her cup and took a slow sip. Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t forgiving either. Her usual calm self, though something seemed off today.
“Sorry,” I muttered, fumbling to pull my gloves off. “Lost track of time.” I didn’t even have a good excuse today. She gave me a look but didn’t press into it. Instead, she leaned back, surveying my face.
"Nice cross earring. Found god?"
"Funny."
"You seeing anyone, yet?"
"Well, there is this one guy I've been seeing a lot of lately. Tall, muscular, tattoos, goofy hair." I said as a joke, but then realized I might be discovering my type. Before she could dig deeper, I deflected.
"Oh, this woman I work with, Allie Springfield, she said to say hello. Do you know her?"
"Not really," she said while staring out the window. She turned back and looked into my eyes, possibly seeing the red hue. "You look... tired.”
“Thanks.” My sarcasm was barely masked. Her lips twitched into the hint of a smile, but it didn’t stick.
“Seriously, Viktor. Are you okay? I know Olivia meant a lot to you. My heart broke when you called me."
I let my eyes wander to the window. Outside, the city moved on as if nothing was wrong. Inside, everything felt like it was unraveling.
“I’m fine,” I finally grunted. I reached for the coffee she’d ordered for me, lukewarm now but still comforting.
The silence ran on too long. I could tell she was hesitating.
"Viktor, I need to tell you about Father. He—he's not doing well.” Her voice dropped, quieter, heavier.
I froze, the cup halfway to my lips. “What do you mean?”
She reached into her bag, pulling out an envelope. “His doctor sent me this. It’s—not good.”
She always took long pauses while speaking. It made me feel like each sentence could be the next bombshell of bad news.
I took the letter. The paper was soft and worn, edges creased from being read and reread. My eyes only skimmed the words, but the weight of them hit me all the same.
Severely ill.
Not much time left.
“Does he know?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. I was unable to understand how I should feel at this moment, what to say. All I knew was I didn’t expect this.
She nodded. “Yeah. He knows.”
I set the letter down, staring at the table as if the answers to everything could be found in the grain of the wood. “And he hasn’t said anything?”
“No.” Her tone sounded bitter. “What would he say?”
The question hung in the air between us, heavy and unanswerable. I leaned back, rubbing a hand over my face.
"What about Mom?"
"I haven't told her yet. I wanted to visit her at the home."
"I've been thinking about Mom a lot lately. The way she'd see things that weren't there... It's his fault she's in that home."
I didn't need to tell Kira, she knew all too well. Father expected the old ways. A family that looked like the ones he knew back in his motherland. A son to carry his legacy. A wife and daughter who stayed small and obedient.
That thin veneer began to crack with Mother and her depression. Then, with me, the son who would never follow in his footsteps.
Finally, I said with a sigh, "It’s not like he’d want to see me, anyway.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
Words rushed out of me like a waterfall.
“Because I’m me. Because I’m not the son he wanted.”
She looked at me for a moment. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is!” I shot back. “He never approved of me. He didn’t then, and he won’t now.” I felt guilty. Guilty that I had turned the conversation onto me, instead of Father. But I couldn’t turn it around now. I was too far in.
She leaned forward, gaze steady. “What are you talking about?”
I hesitated, the words catching like a knot in my throat. But then, like everything seems to do, they came unraveled.
“You know—a gay son.”
"We've talked about this, Viktor. He was raised in Russia. His life there... it shaped his... beliefs."
"Yes, but—it's different here! It should be different. Our parents came here to escape bigotry." My head sank, eyes not quite seeing the table. "We came all this way just to drag it with us."
She didn’t argue. Just sat there, twisting her coffee mug.
I sighed, "I'm sorry. It's been a long week."
She lifted my chin and said, “You’re not alone, you know.”
For the first time this week, I began to relax. Maybe she was right.
Continue to Chapter 6.
