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When 23-year-old Luna disappears without a trace, the world believes she’s dead. But her spirit lingers, tethered between life and death—and only one man can see her.

John Carter has been cursed with the ability to see ghosts ever since the tragic death of his twin sister at age ten. Haunted by her spirit and the ridicule of a world that called him crazy, John turned his curse into a mission: help the lost find justice.

But nothing prepared him for Luna.

As Luna’s memories return in disturbing flashes, John pieces together a string of horrific murders linked by surgical precision and eerie identity swaps. All the clues point to one man: Dr. Elias Voss, a disgraced surgeon turned psychopath known only to the media as The Sculptor. His twisted obsession with “fixing” lives has left a trail of mangled corpses and swapped identities—all hidden beneath the surface of society.

Luna is not dead. Not yet. Her body is alive—trapped in a medically-induced coma, hidden somewhere in the depths of Voss’s secret lair. And time is running out.

Together, John and Luna must outwit a brilliant, deranged killer who has turned human lives into his art. But the deeper they go, the more blurred the lines between life, death, and madness become.

Can they bring Voss to justice before Luna’s tether to life snaps forever?

Or will they become his final masterpiece?

A Psycho's path

**Chapter Eight: The Hollow Return**

Luna's first breath was a knife.

Her lungs burned. Her fingers twitched against the stiff hospital sheets, the sensation of touch flooding back in jagged waves. The world was too bright, too loud—the beeping of the monitors, the hum of the fluorescents, the scent of antiseptic and decay.

God, the weight of being alive again.

John's hands were on her shoulders, steadying her as she choked on air. "Easy. Easy. You're okay."

Her vision swam, her thoughts a tangled mess of then and now. She remembered floating. She remembered the cold. She remembered watching herself from the outside.

Now, she was trapped inside her own skin.

"Voss—" she croaked, her voice raw.

"Gone." John's grip tightened. "For now."

Luna tried to sit up, but her muscles screamed in protest. Her body was weak, atrophied. A puppet with its strings cut.

She looked down at her arms—pale, bruised, the IV still embedded in her vein. She yanked it out. A bead of blood welled up, dark and real.

"I can still feel it," she whispered.

She didn't answer. Because how could she explain it? The cold wasn't gone. It was inside her now, coiled in her chest like a second heartbeat.

John must have seen the fear in her eyes. His jaw set. "We need to move. He'll be back. And next time, he won't be alone."

He helped her stand, her legs trembling beneath her. Every step was agony, but Luna clenched her teeth and forced herself forward.

She hadn't noticed them before—hadn't let herself notice. But now, her living eyes traced the shapes beneath the white cloth.

John followed her gaze. His expression darkened. "We can't help them yet."

"We have to." His voice was low, urgent. "If we don't get out now, we don't get out at all."

Luna hesitated. Then, from the far corner of the room—

Her head snapped toward it. One of the sheets shifted. Just slightly. Just enough.

John cursed under his breath, but Luna was already pulling away, stumbling toward the bed. Her fingers gripped the edge of the sheet.

The hollow return