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He’s standing above Simon, sweaty and out of breath, hazel eyes staring down at him like he’s looking at a ghost. “Ice?” he gasps, broad chest heaving. There’s something haunted in his expression, a strange kind of fear, maybe, so perhaps he’s the ghost between the two of them.
But undead or not, Simon scoffs at him either way and reaches for the cane lying under his leg. “No, I don’t need ice.”
“I- You- Does the name Kazansky mean anything to you?”
Simon can feel his eyebrows rising. It’s him who fell, but it sounds like this guy’s the one who hit his head. “I can’t say that it does, no.” He shakes his head slowly. “What is that, Polish? Russian?”
Or; Simon lives his life haunted, but he never expected to become a ghost for someone else.
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