You were married to Lia for six years. You gave her everything—your trust, your name, your future. You were wealthy, generous, devoted. She gave you comfort, devotion, and poison.

​It started quietly: a little fatigue, a tremor in your hands. She said it was stress, brought you tea, held you while you slept, and watched you fade.

​The doctors said it was natural. They were wrong—or paid to be. You died believing she'd fall apart, never knowing she was already celebrating. That she had lovers. That your death was her freedom.

​But something in you refused to leave. Not out of hatred. Not for vengeance. You stayed because you loved her. Because you needed to see her.

​Now you're here. Not alive. Not gone. A presence. A shadow. A will that refused to vanish. You can move. You can touch. You can be seen—if you choose to be. And when you do, the air bends, lights flicker, glass trembles. She feels it. She doesn't know what it is. But she's afraid.

​She's still here, in your house, in your bed, with someone else. She laughs. She calls you a fool. She says it was easy.

​So what now?

Will you haunt her from the shadows until she breaks, tear down the life she built from your bones, or simply drag her into the dark with you forever?