Rick hadn't slept. Last night had wrecked him, and the hangover clung to his skin like a heavy fog. It was still early — or maybe way too late to sleep.
He stumbled into the living room and turned on the stereo. The crackle faded into a blast of guitar: AC/DC's "Back in Black." It wasn't loud, but just enough to fill the silence with raw energy.
— "Yes, I'm back in black!" — Rick sang along, voice raspy, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
In the kitchen, he lazily yanked open the fridge. Grabbed some eggs, bacon, and dropped them on the counter like he was setting up a breakfast ritual.
He cracked two eggs into the pan. The sizzle mixed with the guitar solo. The yolks spread like tiny suns, and Rick, still half-asleep, nodded to the beat.
— "I got nine lives, cat's eyes…" — he mumbled, tossing the bacon in. It curled and popped, releasing that greasy, comforting smell that wrapped around the whole house.
He flipped the eggs carefully, like they were treasure. The bacon browned unevenly, but Rick didn't care. He was there, in the moment — sweaty, barefoot, in an old T-shirt — living like he was in a gritty rock video.
But inside, the calm was fake.
He died.
Not metaphorically. Not in a dream. For real. His heart stopped. The world went dark. And for a stretch of time he couldn't measure, Rick simply ceased to exist.
Then… he came back.
Since then, supernatural crap had become routine.
Rick, barefoot and in his worn-out shirt, tried to pretend he was still just a regular guy making breakfast.
I ate a ghost.
The thought echoed like a cursed chorus. He didn't know if it was real, or if his mind was just falling apart. But he felt it — something inside him had changed. Cold. Empty. Or maybe… too full.
He tried to tell himself it was just the hangover, just exhaustion. But the memory of that strange skin, that touch that shouldn't exist, the feeling of absorbing something not from this world… Coffee wasn't going to fix that.
Rick reached out to flip the bacon and, distracted, touched the hot pan.
"Shit!" he yelped, jumping back and sucking on his burned finger.
The pain was welcome. Real. Tangible. Unlike the unease hiding behind his eyes.
"You're losing it, Rick," he muttered, like trying to calm a wild animal with soft words.
He sat at the table with a hot plate and steaming coffee. The music still throbbed in the background, but his mind was somewhere else.
"It's not like ghosts are sold in bulk," Rick thought, trying to convince himself it was over. That the worst had already happened. That the supernatural had played its hand — and now, finally, silence would return.
The ghost. The eyes that didn't reflect light. The touch that passed through skin — all of it was more than anyone should ever witness.
Then he remembered those two guys he'd followed.
Dean and Sam.
The brothers who looked like they'd slept in graveyards and fought demons over breakfast.
"Those guys… they seemed to deal with this kind of stuff." Some kind of modern ghost hunters, with leather jackets and eyes that said I've seen worse.
Rick frowned. "So that means there are more ghosts out there?" The idea unsettled him more than the hangover.
No fucking way.
He said it out loud, like the curse could chase the thought away.
But the doubt was already planted. If there were hunters, then there had to be prey. And if he'd devoured one… maybe there were others. Maybe he was marked.
And he wasn't chosen one, or psychic, or a hero. Hell, he wasn't even close. He was just Rick. A regular guy with a messy past and questionable taste in women and cheap whiskey.
"This whole thing's already more than I should be dealing with," he thought, spinning the mug between his fingers. Maybe this was the end of the road.
Maybe the universe had dumped everything on him at once, and now the silence would return.
No more wandering souls. No more strange presences.
Maybe the ghost he devoured was the last — a cosmic mistake, an exception.
Right?
He tried hard to believe that. Like someone closing their eyes and hoping the weird thing doesn't knock on the door.
Rick wasn't a coward — just tired.
Tired of being dragged into things he don't want, no regular person should ever face.
Weird's been my new normal for a while. But this? This takes the crown.
But the silence didn't last.
Three knocks hit the door. Sharp. Steady. Followed by the sound of the doorbell.
Ding-dong.
Rick froze. The coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. The music kept playing — "Back in Black" roared in the background — but now it sounded distant, like it was coming from another room, another world.
He got up slowly, heart pounding like it wanted to escape through his throat. Three knocks. Doorbell. That wasn't a coincidence.
"If it's another ghost, I swear I'm moving to a cabin in the woods," he muttered, trying to lighten the fear growing like a shadow behind his eyes.
The door was just a few steps away. But it felt like miles.
He turned off the stove, wiped his hands on a towel, and went to answer.
Two women were standing outside — friends of Sara.
Rick blinked, half surprised, half numb.
But mostly relieved.
His shoulders dropped a little, the breath he didn't realize he was holding finally escaping.
Just people. Not ghosts. Not monsters. Not whatever the hell had been clawing at the edges of his life lately.
"Hi," said one of them, the Asian girl. "We're… friends of Sara."
"I remember," Rick replied, with a crooked half-smile.
He stepped aside, letting them in. The smell of bacon still hung in the air, and the music kept playing — now it was "Highway to Hell."
"You hungry?" he asked, nodding toward the pan. "Got eggs and bacon. Nothing fancy, but it's hot."
Susan, the blonde with the easy smile, looked at Tifa, who gave a shy little nod.
Then Susan stepped in like lightning — blonde, bold, with a gothic vibe that clashed with the room. Tifa followed quietly, with the delicate beauty of a shy Japanese girl.
"We'll take it," said Susan, taking off her jacket and hanging it on a chair. "Sara said you might need some company."
Rick served the eggs slowly, still dazed from the night before.
"Too bad you didn't come because you wanted to," he said, with a crooked smile. "I would've liked that better."
Susan laughed, tossing her hair back.
"Maybe I did," she said, eyes sparkling.
Rick raised an eyebrow. There was something in her voice that didn't feel like a joke.
Tifa sat silently, taking in the details of the house, like she was trying to understand Rick without words.
Susan got up and walked over to the stereo.
"Mind if I pick the next one?" she asked, already fiddling with the buttons.
"Go for it," said Rick, placing the plates on the table.
Soon "You Shook Me All Night Long" started playing, and Susan sang along with a playful grin.
The conversation moved slowly. They asked how he was, if he'd slept, if the hangover was hitting hard. Rick answered with raw honesty, but didn't go too deep.
"Nah. Just cooked. Tried not to think too much," he said, staring at the bacon like it was a symbol of survival.
The sizzle had been his anchor. The smell, a reminder that the world still made sense — at least in the kitchen. He hadn't cooked for taste. He'd cooked to stay grounded.
Tifa finally spoke:
"Sara wanted to come… but she couldn't. So she sent us."
Rick nodded, chewing slowly.
"Got it. Still… thanks for coming. Even if it's for her."
Susan looked at him with a softer smile.
"Maybe it's for us too."
Rick glanced at Tifa for a moment. She kept her eyes down, stirring her coffee like the liquid might give her answers. When Susan said, "Maybe it's for us too," Rick noticed a faint blush on the Asian girl's cheeks.
She blushed.
Not with obvious embarrassment, but in that quiet way — like someone feeling something and trying to hide it. Rick didn't say anything, but his gaze lingered a little longer on her. Tifa noticed and turned her face away, pretending to look at a photo frame on the shelf.
Susan, sensing the shift, changed the music to something softer: "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac. The energy shifted. The electric riff gave way to an ethereal, almost nostalgic melody.
Rick leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.
"Sara always liked this song," he said, more to himself than to them.
Tifa finally looked up and spoke, her voice low:
"She said you used to sing it in the car."
Rick chuckled.
This time, Tifa didn't look away. There was something there — not quite courage, but a desire to connect.
Susan walked over to the window, leaving the two of them alone for a moment.
Rick and Tifa sat in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. The music filled the spaces words couldn't reach.
The song played softly, and Susan stayed by the window, watching the sky begin to lighten. Rick and Tifa remained at the table, their plates now mostly untouched.
Rick looked at her more closely. There was something in Tifa's eyes — a mix of nostalgia and hesitation.
"You've changed," he said, with a gentle smile. "But I still recognize the way you hold your cup. Just like back in school."
Tifa laughed quietly, surprised by the memory.
"You remember that?"
"Of course. We went through all of grade school together. You always sat in the second row, near the window."
She nodded, and for a moment, the silence between them grew heavier — not uncomfortable, but full of memories.
Rick rested his elbows on the table, looking at Tifa with a smile that blended surprise and nostalgia.
"You always drew little flowers in the corner of your notebook," he said. "Tiny ones, with folded petals. I thought it was just distraction, but now I see it was your way of escaping."
Tifa smiled, shy.
"It was. I'd draw when class got boring… or when you started arguing with the teacher."
Rick laughed.
"I was such a pain in the ass."
"A little," she said, laughing too. "But funny. You always made everyone laugh, even when you were getting scolded."
He shook his head, nostalgic.
"And that day we got stuck at school because of the rain? You had a tiny umbrella and tried to share it with three people."
"I remember!" said Tifa, her eyes shining. "We got soaked. You lent me your jacket afterward."
Rick looked at her more closely.
"And you kept it for weeks. I thought I'd lost it."
Tifa lowered her gaze, smiling.
"I didn't want to give it back."
Rick laughed, and then silence returned — but this time, it carried something more intimate.
Tifa took a deep breath, like someone about to leap off an emotional cliff.
"I had a bit of a crush on you… back then."
Rick paused. He looked at her, surprised, but without judgment.
Tifa blushed. The color rose in her cheeks like a silent confession.
"It was silly. I never said anything. You were always so confident. And I was just the quiet girl drawing flowers."
Rick smiled.
"I liked the flowers. But I liked the girl even more."
Rick's gaze made his interest clear — direct, almost magnetic. But there was an intensity she still didn't know how to handle. So she looked away, with a delicacy that felt rehearsed, like someone changing the subject without seeming to run.
"You've changed a lot," she said, stirring her cup as if searching for courage at the bottom of the coffee. "Back then, you were loud, always joking, drawing guitars in your notebooks… now you're quieter. More… focused."
Rick smiled, tilting his head.
"Life changes us. But you've changed too. You're more confident. More… present."
Tifa laughed, shaking her head.
"Present? I've barely said a word."
"But you're here. That already says a lot."
She looked at him, and for a moment, it seemed like she wanted to say more. But she chose to stick to the memories.
"Remember the science fair? You made that crazy project with Christmas lights and a cardboard guitar."
Rick laughed out loud.
"That was a disaster. The guitar fell apart in the middle of the presentation."
"And still, you got an honorable mention. The teacher said he'd never seen someone defend a project with so much passion."
Rick shook his head, nostalgic.
"I just wanted to be noticed," he said, voice thick. "I think it was my way of shouting to the world that I was here… that I mattered."
Tifa didn't say anything at first. She just looked at him, her expression full of quiet understanding.
"You always mattered. Even when you thought no one saw you."
Rick fell silent, a subtle shine in his eyes. But Tifa looked away again, as if afraid she'd gone too far.
Rick turned his gaze to the window. Susan was no longer there.
He frowned, trying to remember when she'd left his field of vision. The music still played, but now it sounded distant, as if muffled by something more urgent.
Tifa stirred her cup with increasingly restless movements. Her eyes avoided his, and her words, once soft, now came fast, as if she wanted to keep the conversation alive at any cost.
"Do you remember the museum trip?" she said, almost stumbling over the words. "You got stuck in the elevator with the history teacher and…"
Rick didn't answer. He was watching her gestures closely. Her hand trembled slightly. The smile seemed forced.
Something wasn't right.
"Tifa," he said, more firmly. "Where's Susan?"
Tifa froze for a second. Then tried to smile.
"She… went to the bathroom, I think."
Rick stood up slowly, his eyes scanning the room. The bathroom door was ajar. Empty.
He looked down the hallway. Silence.
He turned back to Tifa, who now gripped the edge of her cup like it was an anchor.
"You're distracting me," Rick said, more to himself than to her. "But why?"
Tifa didn't answer. The blush returned to her cheeks, but this time it wasn't shyness — it was tension.
Rick took two steps toward the hallway. The smell of bacon still lingered in the air, but now it seemed to mask something else.
Susan was doing something. But what?
Rick stood up firmly, eyes fixed on the hallway. Something didn't add up. Tifa stood up right behind him, a step slower, as if hesitating to follow.
"Rick…" she said, in a low voice, almost a whisper. "It's nothing. She just…"
But Rick was already walking. His mind was racing. Disconnected fragments, blurry memories, sensations that didn't fit.
He stopped in the middle of the hallway. Turned slowly, as if something had just lit up inside him.
"Wait," he said, voice firmer. "That thing… that little pouch… what's it called again? Mojo? Mocho?"
Tifa turned pale. Didn't answer. Just widened her eyes, as if he'd said something he wasn't supposed to.
Rick frowned. "You left that at the hospital. Why?"
She remained silent. Mouth slightly open, eyes locked on him — as if she wanted to say something, as if she needed to — but couldn't. It wasn't fear. It was something else. Something deeper. As if the name he'd spoken had awakened something she wasn't ready to face.
Rick didn't wait. He turned down the hallway with quick steps, like the floor itself might collapse beneath him. His hand pushed the door open with force.
The dry sound echoed through the room — and then… everything stopped.
His thoughts, his suspicions, even his anger — all died right there, as if ripped from his mind.
Susan was there.
Lying on the bed, wearing only lingerie — black lace against pale sheets, like a painting designed to provoke. The contrast with the light bedding made the scene feel even more surreal.
Rick froze, unsure if he was dreaming or if the hangover had turned into delirium.
Susan looked at him with a provocative smile, her eyes gleaming with desire.
"You're ready to hear the real reason we came?"
She raised an eyebrow, the smile playing on her lips. "Maybe I came for myself… or maybe not."
Her gaze slid down his body, like someone evaluating a promise. "Who knows… maybe I just wanted to see if what Sara kept saying was true."
"That you were unforgettable." She bit her lip lightly.
Rick stood still. The silence was deafening. He turned his face, looking for Tifa.
She was at the door, undressing with trembling hands, her face flushed, eyes wide, breath short.
Rick looked at both of them — Susan, dark and provocative; Tifa, red and vulnerable.
He stared at them, trying to make sense of the contrast. It was like the universe had sent him a pair of opposites to mess with his morning.
"It was one of those nights when you turn out the lights…" Bon Scott's voice came through like a raspy whisper, dripping with mischief. "Touch Too Much" had started playing.