Chapter 3: The Boy Who Cleansed Spirits
442 Words
The address Leo Zhao sent led me to a part of the city I didn’t know existed.
No streetlights. No signs. Just rows of decaying buildings that looked abandoned, like time had forgotten them. The kind of place you instinctively avoid—even during the day.
It was almost sunset when I reached the building. Number 19. A sliding metal door that groaned like it was alive when I pushed it open.
Inside smelled like incense and wet stone.
And there he was.
A boy—maybe eighteen or nineteen—sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, surrounded by papers, talismans, and bowls of ash. His hair was dark, long, tied loosely. His expression was unreadable.
“You brought the jar?” he asked without looking up.
I stepped forward. “Are you Leo Zhao?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you wasted my time.”
He finally looked at me.
His eyes were sharper than glass. The kind of eyes that had seen things they shouldn’t have—but never looked away.
I held out the jar.
Leo took it gently, almost reverently, like it was a living thing. He turned it over in his hands, sniffed the rim, then tilted it toward a candle flame.
“Red wax. Sealed intentionally. Traditional markings… modified with modern ink. This is serious.”
He pulled out the scroll and unrolled it.
When he saw my name written in blood-like ink, he let out a soft whistle.
“You opened it?”
I nodded.
He looked up. “Then you’re cursed.”
“No kidding.”
“It’s a time-bound soul transfer,” he said, tapping the parchment. “Whoever opens the seal becomes the new carrier. The spirit inside latches onto your name. You have three nights before it claims what it’s owed.”
“And what exactly is it owed?” I asked.
“Guilt. Regret. A final moment of weakness. Whatever breaks you.”
My mouth went dry. “Can it be removed?”
Leo tilted his head. “You could pass it on.”
“Not happening.”
His gaze didn’t change, but I felt a shift. Like something about my answer had surprised him.
“Most people ask how to lie better,” he said.
“Well, I’m not most people.”
“No,” he murmured. “You’re not.”
He stood, smoothing his robes. “Then we’ll try the hard way.”
I raised an eyebrow. “There’s a hard way?”
“There’s always a hard way. But we’ll need help. This kind of spirit doesn’t go quietly.”
- Writer
