Plan

Morning came. 

Haoran's shuffled into the bathroom, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. 

His hair was a mess, and his shirt was wrinkled from sleeping in it. 

As he lazily brushed his teeth, he muttered, "Sometimes I wake up thinking I'm on drugs."

The spirit wasn't bothered. If anything, he sounded amused.

"And why's that?"

Haoran spat into the sink. 

"Because I've got some old-ass ghost talking in my head, changing my damn life. And not in a good way. A stupid spirit with me."

The spirit let out a scoff. 

"Maybe I'm just a 'stupid spirit,' but I've got more experience than you have brain cells." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I've seen centuries pass, while you're still struggling to pay for instant noodles."

Haoran rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen.

It was a mess, clothes tossed over the chair, dishes piling up in the sink, a faint smell of old food in the air. But Haoran didn't care. He opened the fridge, barely glancing at the sad selection inside. Half a carton of milk. A few eggs. A takeout box from last week? Maybe longer.

Didn't matter. Haoran grabbed it, sat at the tiny table, and started eating straight from the container.

The spirit watched.

"You seem oddly satisfied for someone barely surviving," he said. "I guess a full stomach makes you forget how broke you are."

Haoran took another bite, chewing without a care. "Yeah, well, starving sounds worse."

A pause.

Then, casually, the spirit added, "You know, if you keep eating like that, you'll owe me a kidney."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Just something to think about."

Haoran leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms as he finished his food. Dust floated in the air. Outside, cars honked, people shouted, just another day in the city.

Haoran tossed the empty takeout box aside with a smirk. "Cheap food tastes the best. You only live once."

The spirit shifted inside him, moving like smoke.

"Well, thanks? Killing bad guys, taking their money, now I'm full."

Haoran stood up and walked to the sink, stepping over clothes and old newspapers on the floor. He turned the faucet, waiting for the rusty pipes to give him some water. When it finally came, he splashed it on his face.

"Anyway, can't you just jump into someone else's body?"

"I can't just jump from body to body like some ghost looking for a ride," he said. 

"My power works through you. Your body is my vessel. We're stuck together until you decide to let me go. And for the record, I don't like being passed around like some cheap cigarette."

"Well, you came from a cigarette."

Haoran wiped his face on his shirt and looked up at the cracked mirror. His hair was messy. His eyes looked tired. But there was something else in them, something sharp, something restless.

Maybe because of the fight, he had been taking the pain.

"Fuck this, I'm not high. You're just my thoughts. I'm real."

"You can splash water on your face all you want, but it won't change the fact that I'm real too."

Outside, a siren wailed. The city kept moving, unaware of the shadows growing inside it.

——————

It was Sunday. He didn't go out. Didn't feel like it. He stayed in his cramped apartment, sitting on the windowsill with one leg hanging over the edge. He could smell the exhaust and fried food from street vendors below.

His neighborhood was rough, old buildings, flickering streetlights, alleyways filled with stray cats and people who minded their own business. It was nothing like his parents' home. They were middle class, comfortable, but he had left that behind. Too stubborn, too prideful to take their help.

Haoran pulled out a few crumpled bills from his pocket and counted. ¥124.84. Not enough. Not even close.

He needed more, to survive this month.

Haoran exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. The money came easy. Beat up the right people, take their cash, disappear without a trace. Was it right? He wasn't sure. Maybe not. But survival didn't care about right or wrong.

He leaned back against the window frame, lighting a cigarette. The first inhale was bitter, but familiar. He let the smoke curl from his lips, speaking to the presence inside his head.

"Tell me about your past."

The thought had come out of nowhere. He never really cared to ask before. Maybe he should have.

The spirit went silent, caught off guard. For the first time, Haoran felt something different from him, not the usual smug amusement or cryptic responses. Something almost hesitant.

Finally, the spirit spoke, his voice lower than usual.

"My past is filled with pain and regret. I've lost count of the years I've wandered from one vessel to another, never finding peace."

Haoran flicked the ash off his cigarette. "Go on."

Another pause. Then, the spirit continued.

"I was imprisoned once. Sealed inside a jar, trapped in my own smoke. It was humiliating. My punishment."

Haoran raised an eyebrow. "Punishment for what?"

The spirit's voice darkened. "For destruction. I set fire to a village once. Burned it to the ground."

Haoran inhaled deeply, letting the smoke burn in his lungs before exhaling. "That all?"

"No. I have suffocated countless men. Choked the air from their lungs. Even women."

Haoran grip tightened around his cigarette. He was shocked.

"I did not kill for sport. But in my anger, I was reckless. And so, I was locked away, buried where no one would find me. Until you."

Right, this year, he found him.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He had his own sins to carry, but this… this was something else.

Yet, strangely, he didn't feel afraid.

He took another drag, watching the smoke curl up into the night.

"Well," he muttered, exhaling slowly. "Guess we're not so different, then."

Haoran flicked the ash off his cigarette, watching the ember glow in the dim light of his apartment.

"I don't know if having you is good luck or bad luck."

"Hm."

Haoran leaned back, tapping his cigarette against the windowsill, eyes flicking over the city below. 

"Anyway, since you're strong, how about we go after powerful men? Not just thieves, murderers and scum on the streets, but the ones pulling the strings? The ones running the illegal trades, the corrupt, the untouchable?"

The spirit chuckled, a low and knowing sound.

"Powerful men, you say? Why not? I do enjoy delivering justice to those who abuse their authority." There was something almost pleased in his tone, a malevolence curling around his words. "The corrupt and wicked always believe they are beyond consequence. But I can sense them, Haoran. I can feel their greed, their cruelty. And through you, I can make them pay."

Haoran smirked, flicking the cigarette away. The idea excited him. More risk, sure, but bigger targets meant bigger rewards. If they played it right, the money would flow like water.

"Good. Then we—"

"But," the spirit interrupted, its tone shifting, "remember this, my friend: power breeds arrogance. The men we target will not fall so easily. They are dangerous, protected. If we are not careful, we will become the hunted."

Haoran rolled his neck, stretching out his muscles. "Tch. Always so dramatic."

But the spirit was considering something.

"Perhaps. For now, let's continue ridding the streets of petty criminals and bottom-feeders. Their time will come soon enough. When the moment is right, we will set our sights higher."

A slow grin crept across Haoran's face.

"Fine by me. Let's make some money."