My Undead Ex Is My Boss

Celine

I woke up wrong at four in the morning.

Not a nightmare. Not my alarm. My own skin did it — starting at the fingertips of my left hand, the ring finger first, then the middle, then the whole hand lit up with something that felt like fine electrical current tracking along the nerves. Not painful. Just relentless.

I lay still and stared at the ceiling, attempting to identify what was causing this effect on my body.

Normally, reactions like this only happened when I was near those special supernatural figures.

My black cat Cinder was somewhat extraordinary as well, but she was deeply familiar and entirely safe to me. She never roused my wariness.

Nothing wrong lingered nearby.

But my left hand was still numb.

I pressed each finger into my palm, one at a time, the way you'd tap a wall to find the hollow space behind it. The numbness pulled back — pins and needles, then a tingling warmth, then a sensation that sank too deep into the bone of my wrist to be poor circulation. It settled there. Pulsed, twice, like a second heartbeat installed in the wrong place.

All right, I thought. Probably just some new supernatural presence nearby.

I was twenty-two the first time I understood I was wired differently.

It was faint back then. A flicker at the edge of my vision in certain old buildings. A crawling wrongness in certain people — nothing I could name, nothing that stopped me from living my life, just a persistent low-grade signal that I learned to route around the way you route around roadwork. My father called it the family inheritance. He said it the way he said most things he couldn't fix: flatly, with his eyes somewhere past my shoulder, in the tone of a man explaining a return policy that didn't apply.

I spent years learning to live with it.

Then I met him.

And everything I'd built around living with it became completely irrelevant.

His energy wasn't like anything else I'd encountered. Every other source I'd come across in this city pushed against my perception when it got close, the way your hand recoils from a surface that's the wrong temperature. His didn't. When he came close, the low constant static that lived inside my skull just — stopped. The whole world went quiet. I remember standing in the corridor at Nocturne Manor, him beside me, and thinking for the first time in my life: oh. So this is what silence feels like.

I didn't understand, then, how dangerous it was to let someone become that.

Three years ago I walked out of that manor in the rain. For the first seventy-two hours afterward, I thought the hardest part was the grief.

Then my perception came back online and I learned what withdrawal actually meant.

The medication I take now is the result of eighteen months of careful adjustment by a psychiatrist who doesn't know about any of this — not really. She knows her patient has severe sensory overload symptoms. She knows about the sleep disruption, the somatic pain, the neurological responses that don't fit any clean clinical profile. She doesn't know the cause is supernatural, and I don't plan to tell her. What she knows is enough: that the combination she finally landed on keeps the interference manageable. Keeps me functional. Keeps me from walking into a conference room and spending the entire meeting cataloguing everything in it that isn't quite human.

At four in the morning, it wasn't keeping anything.

I sat up. My vision swam for a second — not from sleep, but from my perception lurching into full wakefulness, dragging in the whole layered density of the apartment, the building, the street below — and then punching straight through all of that, north, toward the financial district, toward the top of a forty-two-floor building I knew very well, where something vast and ancient had just touched down.

No, said the part of my brain that manages things. You don't know that. You're catastrophizing.

I pressed two fingers hard to the inside of my wrist and breathed. Something concrete. Something present. The rain on the glass. My own heartbeat, counted from one to ten, then again.

My therapist calls this grounding.

I call it telling my nervous system to shut up.

This time, it didn't work.

Cinder hadn't moved.

He was on the windowsill where he'd been when I fell asleep — spine rigid, tail pressed flat against the ledge, a straight dark line in the grey pre-dawn coming through the curtains. His food bowl sat untouched on the kitchen floor. I'd put his favorite in it last night. He hadn't touched a bite.

I crossed the room and crouched beside the window and looked out along the line of his gaze.

Low cloud pressing down on the Valerius skyline. Fog at street level, swallowing the lamp posts up to their shoulders. Nothing visible. Nothing that would explain the sound rising from his throat — barely audible, barely sound at all, something lower and more deliberate than a growl, less warning than the long slow exhale of recognition.

He'd made that sound exactly once before.

Just once.

I put my hand on his back. He didn't look at me. But he leaned his weight into my palm — not much, just enough to say: I know you feel it too.

"Yeah," I said quietly, like I was worried about being heard. "I know."

I stayed crouched there for a long time. The rain came down. The city held its usual light. And the thing in my chest kept tilting north — gently, stubbornly, with a patience I'd spent three years trying to break — like a compass needle that had been spinning for a very long time and had just, in the dark and the quiet of four in the morning, found the direction it recognized.

I lit a cigarette in the stairwell before I left. Stood there for three minutes. Didn't smoke it. Put it back.

I wanted my perception clear.

I told myself that was caution. Not anything else.

Eleven minutes to Aeterna Tower on the bike. The signal got louder with every intersection.

It wasn't pain — and that was the part I kept catching on, because I knew exactly what pain felt like. I'd walked this city's wrong streets at wrong hours for three years, and I knew what it felt like when a strong foreign source pushed against my perception: sharp, invasive, the kind of frequency your body refuses at a cellular level.

This wasn't pushing.

This was pulling. Gently, steadily, the way a word pulls at the tip of your tongue, the way a voice you've spent years trying to forget will sometimes reach you from a distance and your body turns toward it before you've given it permission.

I parked in the underground bay and stood with my helmet under my arm and breathed the cold stale air of the parking level and tried to locate the signal precisely.

Up. Near the top of the building.

My perception kept reaching for it with an eagerness that genuinely irritated me.

Six unfamiliar faces between the garage entrance and the elevator bank.

All new security. All too still, too evenly spaced, their eyes moving across the lobby in a pattern that no amount of corporate training produced. The one by the rightmost turnstile looked at me as I badged through.

I looked back.

Neither of us said anything. We didn't need to.

Vera was already at the elevator bank — coffee in her left hand, phone in her right, radiating the specific frequency of a person sitting on information they desperately need to share.

"You're early," she said.

"So are you."

"I've been here since half seven." She caught my sleeve as the elevator doors opened and slid shut again, neither of us moving. "Celine. The rumors. They're real — someone saw him this morning, up on the executive floor. I'm talking about the new —"

"Tall," I said. "Hard to look at directly. Makes you want to take a step back without knowing why."

She stared at me. "How do you already know that?"

"You whisper at one volume."

She accepted this with composure. "The point is, there's no name, no announcement, nothing — they replaced all the security overnight and now there's this man standing in the top-floor corridor like he owns the building, which technically I suppose he does, but —" She paused, studying me. "Are you all right? You look like you're getting a headache."

"I'm fine," I said, and reached past her to press the elevator button.

I went up alone.

Thirty-two floors in this building. I needed the thirty-first. As the numbers climbed, the pull in my chest climbed with them — measured, unhurried, like something that had been buried under careful pharmaceutical weight for a long time and was only now remembering how to move. My medication was supposed to stop this. The whole point of the medication was to stop exactly this.

It wasn't stopping anything.

Fifteenth floor: my palms were warm.

Twenty-sixth floor: the feeling sharpened into something I could only call traction — a slow inward pull, like a compass needle completing a rotation and locking into place.

I recognized it.

That was the worst part. Not the sensation itself, but the recognition — immediate, involuntary, the way you recognize the quality of light in a house you grew up in, or the rhythm of a voice you've heard in the dark. I had spent three years methodically retraining my perception to file this specific signal under noise. Under irrelevant. Under done.

One elevator ride. That was all it took.

The dosage needs adjusting, I told myself. That's all this is.

Thirty-first floor.

The doors opened.

It hit me like walking into deep water — not violent, not aggressive, but immense in the way that deep water is immense, producing that specific quality of smallness you get at the edge of something very old and very vast. My hand found the door frame before I'd decided to reach for it. My perception slammed into full activation and immediately ran straight into something broken — a signal trying to complete a circuit through a severed wire, throwing sparks at the gap, scorching the edges.

The pain came a half-second later.

Sharp. Familiar. Sitting precisely behind my sternum in the exact outline of something that had been torn away.

At the far end of the corridor, a man stood with his back to me.

Black jacket. Straight spine. Head slightly inclined toward the person beside him.

It's him. The man I've never been able to forget, the one I dreaded running into. My senses weren't deceiving me — this was unmistakably his aura.

He didn't turn around. Thank God!

My chest ran a sustained, exhausting negotiation between what my nervous system was reaching for and what I was going to allow it to have.

Something in me said it very quietly. Very calmly. With the absolute certainty of a thing that had never once been confused about this, no matter how hard I'd tried to confuse it:

I have to stay away from him. At least for now.