Eli Monroe was forty years old, with creaking knees, thinning hair, and a dream that never aged.
Since he was a boy, he'd wanted to be a superhero — not the kind who ran around in tights, but one with real powers. The kind that could save lives, lift cars, or talk down a ghost from haunting a family to madness. A foolish dream, most would say. But Eli held onto it, tucked behind bills, dead-end jobs, and long, quiet evenings in a one-bedroom apartment.
He worked night shifts as a security guard at Saint Vireo Hospital — an old place with too many wings, too many whispers, and far too many children who never left. Eli had always felt something off about the hospital, something behind the sterile lights and fake smiles. But he minded his business.
Until the night the lights flickered.
Until the night he saw something impossible.
A pale figure in the hallway.
A voice in his head that wasn't his own.
A presence that stared straight into him — and whispered:
"You can see me now"
The hallway was empty again.
Eli blinked hard, pressing his back against the wall as if solid plaster could protect him from whatever he had just seen. The fluorescent lights flickered once—buzzing with that hollow hospital hum—and then steadied. Nothing moved. No footsteps. No shadow. No whisper.
Except the one lodged in his mind.
You can see me now.
The words clung to his thoughts like an alarm that refused to shut off. His heartbeat thrummed against his ribs. Sweat gathered beneath his gloves. The flashlight in his hand shook despite how tightly he held it.
He scanned the corridor again.
Nothing.
But he knew what he saw.
Eli Monroe wasn't the type to believe in ghosts. He wasn't the type to believe in anything outside punching a clock and surviving another night shift. But he also wasn't the type to hallucinate pale children standing barefoot in hospital gowns and whispering directly into his head.
He forced his legs to move. One step, then another. He passed Room 209—the room the nurses avoided without ever admitting why. Then the locked double doors leading to the abandoned pediatric wing, long sealed off and left to collect dust and silence.
The air grew colder with each step.
His breath slowed.
And then he saw it again.
At the far end of the hallway, barely touched by the red glow of the emergency lights, a small figure stood. A child.
Still.
Silent.
Watching.
Eli raised his flashlight, his hand trembling as he tried to steady it.
"Hey… are you—"
The child vanished.
The light slipped from Eli's grip and clattered against the tile. His pulse shot through him like electricity as he sprinted down the corridor, footsteps echoing in the emptiness. He turned the corner—
And stopped dead.
The child stood inches away from him.
Eyes wide. Expression unreadable. One small hand lifted, as if reaching for him.
Eli's entire body locked in place.
Then, for the first time, the child moved—placing his cold, weightless hand against Eli's chest.
The temperature plunged. Eli gasped, the cold seizing his lungs. The boy lifted his gaze, eyes dull yet carrying something ancient, something tired… something hurting.
"You're not ready."
Eli's mouth opened, but no sound formed.
And then the world folded into darkness.