The Napkin Pact

That napkin wasn't just lipstick. The woman at the café marked him with something ancient,

a blood pact disguised as flirtation. He thought it was cute, kept it like a trophy.

Big mistake. Every piece of that napkin held a fragment of her soul, and when he tore

it apart in the rain, he didn't destroy it. He released it.

Those ghostly apparitions weren't random spirits, they were versions of her, multiplying with

every shred. She wasn't the victim watching in horror. She was the architect, feeding off his

fear as her copies swarmed the office. The twist? She'd done this before,

to dozens of men who thought a pretty smile was harmless. When their eyes locked through the