Colson

Ghosts Wear Familiar Faces

Colson POV

The city hadn’t changed.

That was the problem.

It still smelled like rain trying—and failing—to wash sin off concrete. Like exhaust, old magic, and desperation that had soaked so deep into the streets it had become structural. Neon signs bled color across wet pavement, the light refracting through puddles like fractured halos. Music pulsed from buildings at all hours, low and predatory, designed to lure people in and keep them too distracted to notice the teeth closing around their throats.

I had spent years trying to forget this place.

Trying to outrun it.

Trying to pretend the version of me who had thrived here was dead and buried somewhere deep beneath better choices and better people.

Turns out time travel has a vicious sense of humor—and no respect for personal growth.

I walked with my hands in my pockets, collar turned up, head slightly down, moving like I belonged.

Because I did.

My feet knew the cracks in the sidewalk without looking. My body remembered where shadows fell naturally and where they were magically forced. I knew which alleys dead-ended and which ones swallowed people whole. Which streets were neutral ground and which were hunting paths disguised as shortcuts.

My mind, unfortunately, refused to shut up.

How did Amaris manage this?

The magic she’d used wasn’t just old—it was forbidden. Not in the dramatic, cackling-villain way people liked to imagine, but in the quiet, rule-breaking, fate-bending way that always came with catastrophic consequences. Time-binding. Memory erasure. Anchor spaces outside linear reality.

Dark magic.

The kind witches swore blood-oaths never to touch.

Amaris hated that magic. Not because it was immoral—she was practical, not naïve—but because it never stopped at the price it initially asked for. It always came back for more.

She had sworn never to use it.

And she broke that vow.

That alone scared the hell out of me.

Amaris didn’t break rules unless the alternative was annihilation.

Which meant whatever Ezra and his allies were planning… was worse than anything I’d let myself imagine.

I brushed my fingers over the pocket watch through my coat, grounding myself in its steady weight. The thing felt heavier than it should’ve been—like it carried not just time, but expectations.

I knew exactly when this was.

Ezra’s era.

Back when he ruled the city openly from the shadows, smiling like a benevolent god while bleeding it dry. He didn’t just run nightclubs—he ran information, territory, favors, debts. He owned secrets the way dragons owned gold.

And Eclipse was his crown jewel.

A nightclub. A feeding ground. A laundering operation. A place where monsters pretended they weren’t monsters and humans pretended they weren’t prey.

And I worked for him.

Not just as an informant.

As his pest. His blade. His polite little problem solver who did the things that couldn’t be traced back to him. I didn’t just gather information—I ended it.

Quietly. Efficiently. With a joke if the situation allowed.

I was very good at it.

Which made one question itch at the back of my skull like an exposed nerve:

Was I going to run into myself?

The thought nearly made me laugh. Or vomit. Possibly both.

Seeing Ezra again would be bad enough. He was familiar evil—calculated, manipulative, predictable once you understood his patterns.

But seeing the man I had been while working for him?

That version of Colson still believed power was worth the cost. Still believed detachment was strength. Still believed caring was a weakness you paid for later.

I didn’t know what I’d do if I ran into him.

Punch him. Warn him. Kill him.

Paradoxes were exhausting.

I forced my thoughts into order.

Panic wouldn’t help Amaris.

Recklessness wouldn’t save her.

And spiraling now would only end with me doing something monumentally stupid—like walking up to Ezra and asking him politely if he planned to destroy the world this week or the next.

So I focused.

Information first. Footing second. Emotional breakdowns scheduled for later.

Eclipse loomed ahead, pulsing with bass and magic like a living thing. I slipped inside without being noticed—easy enough in a place designed for predators who didn’t want to be seen. Shadows clung to me naturally, welcoming me like an old habit I’d never quite kicked.

The music hit hard, vibrating through bone and instinct. Bodies moved in close quarters—some hunting, some hiding, some offering themselves willingly because fear was easier to swallow when it came wrapped in desire.

I stayed to the edges, letting my senses stretch.

Ezra always watched his club like a spider watched its web. He favored the balcony. Height. Control. Distance.

I glanced upward.

There.

A shadow behind tinted glass. A silhouette in a tailored suit. The faint glint of a ring that could’ve cut stone.

My pulse cooled.

Ezra.

Even now, even knowing how it all ended, the man radiated presence. Not brute strength—certainty. The kind that made people lean toward him without realizing why.

I shifted deeper into shadow.

And then I saw her.

A booth tucked into a corner where the light struggled to reach. A girl sat alone, slouched with deliberate defiance, a bottle of cheap whiskey dangling from her fingers like a challenge. No glass. No pretense.

Her hair was the color of the northern lights—greens bleeding into blues, blues into violet, streaked with silver that shimmered faintly as she moved. It wasn’t just dyed. It was alive, like the sky itself had tangled in her hair and decided to stay.

Sage.

Not my Sage.

Not the woman who would one day bend kings and gods to her will. Not the hybrid who would burn cities for the people she loved. Not my friend. Not my family.

This was Sage before she knew what she was.

But she wasn’t unclaimed.

At this point in time, she was already working for Ezra.

I recognized the posture immediately. The way she positioned herself to see exits and entrances without looking obvious. The way her gaze flicked toward the balcony every few minutes, waiting for a signal she pretended she didn’t care about.

I remembered hearing about her then. The human with the wrong scent. The outcast Ezra took interest in.

Ezra didn’t collect people unless he planned to use them.

I tore my gaze away and moved toward a staff corridor. Information lived there.

I reached the door—

—and stopped.

Because Sage moved.

She slid out of her booth with quiet precision and headed for the same corridor. No hesitation. No wandering.

Working.

I waited a beat, then followed.

The music dulled behind us. The corridor smelled like bleach, metal, and wards embedded into the walls. Sage stopped at the last door.

Ezra’s office.

Of course.

She knocked once and entered. I pressed into the shadows, listening.

“I did what you asked,” Sage said. “He’s watching the docks.”

“Good,” Ezra replied smoothly. “And did he see you?”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot.”

A pause.

Ezra’s amused chuckle.

“I never said you were.”

My hands curled into fists.

The door opened.

Sage stepped out—and stopped.

She turned slowly, eyes locking straight onto the shadow I stood in.

“Well,” she said flatly, “this is unfortunate.”

I stepped just enough into the light to be visible.

“Relax,” I said lightly. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be a cautionary tale.”

She snorted. “Please. You’re Ezra’s pest.”

I blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“The vampire who won’t stop showing up where he’s not invited,” she continued. “The one who lurks, listens, and pretends he’s invisible when he’s really just annoying.”

I pressed a hand to my chest. “That hurts. I prefer mysterious nuisance.”

Her lips twitched despite herself—then hardened. “I know who you are, Colson. I’ve seen you in the ring.”

That gave me pause.

“Oh?” I said carefully.

“You’re good,” she admitted, grudging. “Fast. Dirty. Too fond of dramatic exits.” She tilted her head, eyes sharp. “Still, if we fought for real? I’d knock you out.”

I laughed. “Wow. No flirting, no foreplay—just straight to threatening bodily harm.”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I said. “Confidence is dangerous. I admire it.”

She stepped closer, invading my space without hesitation. Whiskey and ozone clung to her like armor.

“You don’t belong back here,” she said quietly.

“Story of my life.”

“If Ezra catches you snooping,” she continued, “he won’t send me.”

I leaned in just enough to keep it playful. “See, that’s how I know I’m still useful.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Her gaze lingered, sharp and assessing. “So why are you really here, pest?”

I let a sliver of truth through. “To stop something.”

She scoffed. “That’s vague.”

“Welcome to my existence.”

She studied me, then muttered, “You’re either lying or you’ve grown a conscience.”

“I’ve had one for years,” I said. “I just keep it locked up.”

A beat.

“Fine,” she said. “One warning. One chance. You screw this up, I won’t wait for Ezra.”

I smiled, fangs flashing faintly. “Fair. But if you knock me out, buy me a drink first.”

She snorted. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” I said, “here we are.”

As she walked away, my gaze followed her—and the realization hit hard.

If Sage existed here…

Then so did Amaris.

A younger version. Unbroken. Not yet taken. Not yet forced into impossible choices.

If I could find her—

If I could earn her trust early—

Could I fix the future before it shattered?

The pocket watch pulsed faintly in my coat.

Fate had just offered me a choice.

And choices, I’d learned, were the most dangerous magic of all.