The champagne was cold.

I drank it anyway. The bubbles stung my tongue. Sharp. Alive.

Around me, the ballroom hummed. Violins. Laughter. The clink of crystal.

I stood by the window. The glass fogged under my breath.

Behind me, the party roared.

I watched a mirror.

My reflection stared back.

He wore the uniform.

The dress uniform.

Epaulets. Medals.

The gold braid on my collar caught the light.

It was a serpent.

Coiled.

Waiting.

The fabric was silk.

Black.

Heavy.

It felt like lead.

It felt like skin.

It was not just cloth.

It was me.

I touched the shoulder.

The thread was tight.

Too tight.

It pressed into the bone.

A bruise forming.

Dark.

Purple.

Spreading.

I smiled.

The crowd saw a soldier.

A hero.

They saw the face of duty.

They did not see the cage.

I had built this cage.

I had stitched it myself.

Needle and thread.

Blood and bone.

To keep him in.

The man I fought.

The man who wore the same face.

The man who owned the house.

Lord Ashworth.

He stood in the center of the room.

Tall.

Gray hair.

Silver smile.

He held a glass.

He looked at me.

His eyes were empty.

Hollow.

Like wells.

I looked away.

I could not look.

To look was to break.

I turned back to the window.

The night was cold.

The stars were dead.

I felt the seam on my spine.

It itched.

It burned.

It pulled.

I was tearing.

Slowly.

Invisible.

One thread.

Then another.

The silk frayed.

The black bled.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered the day.

The day I wore this coat for the first time.

My father’s house.

The garden.

The roses.

Red.

Like blood.

He had given it to me.

He had pinned it on my shoulders.

His hands shook.

His eyes were wet.

"Protect," he had said.

"Protect us."

I had nodded.

I had sworn.

I had bound myself.

With the coat.

With the vow.

With the blood.

I was the shield.

I was the wall.

I was the ghost.

But ghosts do not rest.

Ghosts hunt.

And the hunter.

The hunter is the prey.

I opened my eyes.

The party was loud.

The music stopped.

Silence.

A pin drop.

Lord Ashworth walked toward me.

He moved slowly.

Like a shark.

The crowd parted.

They did not see him.

They saw only the light.

The gold.

The power.

He stopped before me.

Close.

Too close.

I could smell him.

Tobacco.

Old paper.

Rot.

"You look tired, Captain," he said.

His voice was silk.

Smooth.

Deadly.

"I serve," I said.

My voice was steel.

Hard.

Cold.

"Serve whom?" he asked.

He smiled.

The smile did not reach his eyes.

"My country," I said.

"Your country?"

He laughed.

A dry sound.

Like leaves cracking.

"You serve the house."

He tapped the coat.

His finger grazed the silk.

A spark.

A pain.

It shot through me.

I flinched.

He saw it.

He knew.

He always knew.

"The coat is tight," he whispered.

I did not answer.

I could not.

My jaw was locked.

My hands were fists.

Clenched.

At my sides.

The silk screamed.

I heard it.

A high keen.

Only I heard it.

The fabric was alive.

It hated him.

It hated me.

It wanted to tear.

To rip.

To be free.

But I held it.

I held it together.

With my will.

With my pain.

With my love.

Love for the house.

Love for the name.

Love for the dead.

It was a poison.

Sweet.

Slow.

Killing.

"I will take it off," I said.

He tilted his head.

"Take it off?"

"Yes."

"Impossible."

"Watch me."

I reached up.

My hand trembled.

I touched the collar.

The gold braid.

The serpent.

It bit.

I did not care.

I pulled.

The silk resisted.

It fought.

It clung.

Like a lover.

Like a child.

I pulled harder.

The thread snapped.

One.

Two.

Three.

A sound.

Ripping.

Tearing.

The party gasped.

The music started.

Wrong.

Slow.

Dissonant.

The coat was coming apart.

The black silk hung in strips.

Revealing the skin.

The scars.

The old wounds.

The new ones.

Blood.

Red.

Bright.

I did not feel it.

I felt only the weight.

Lifting.

The gold fell.

The medals clattered.

On the floor.

The epaulets dropped.

The shirt was white.

Stained.

Torn.

I stood naked.

In spirit.

In flesh.

Lord Ashworth laughed.

He laughed loud.

He clapped.

He turned to the crowd.

"Look at him," he said.

"He is nothing."

The crowd stared.

They saw a man.

Not a hero.

A man.

Broken.

Bleeding.

I looked at my father’s house.

The windows.

The lights.

The ghosts.

They were watching.

Waiting.

For me to fall.

I did not fall.

I walked.

I walked to the center.

The floor was cold.

The air was thin.

I took a breath.

Deep.

Full.

I looked at Ashworth.

He was afraid.

His smile faded.

His eyes widened.

He saw the truth.

He saw the ghost.

The ghost was not in the coat.

The ghost was in the man.

The ghost was in the vow.

The vow that binds.

The vow that kills.

I raised my hand.

Not a weapon.

A hand.

Open.

Empty.

I reached for him.

Not to strike.

To touch.

To end.

The silk on my arm tore.

A long strip.

Like a ribbon.

I let it fall.

It hung.

Swaying.

Black.

Beautiful.

Ashworth stepped back.

He tripped.

He fell.

The glass broke.

The champagne spilled.

Golden.

Like wine.

Like blood.

He lay on the floor.

His eyes were wide.

Terrified.

I stood over him.

I did not kill him.

I did not need to.

The coat had done its work.

The cycle was broken.

The ghost was free.

I felt the pain.

Sharp.

Blinding.

It was the end.

Of the house.

Of the name.

Of me.

The crowd screamed.

They ran.

The doors opened.

The night rushed in.

Cold.

Dark.

Empty.

I was alone.

With the dead.

With the living.

With the ghost.

I looked down.

At the silk.

On the floor.

It was still.

It was quiet.

It was gone.

I closed my eyes.

I felt the weight.

Lifting.

Finally.

The breath.

The last breath.

It was sweet.

It was light.

I let it go.

I let it go.

I let it go.