Jaxon Draven

The antique shop had been a graveyard of forgotten things, but the shard had practically hummed against Jaxon’s palm. He wasn't a man of sentiment, yet the moment he fastened that black cord around his neck, the world shifted. At first, it was just a localized chill—a cold spot in his apartment that followed him from the kitchen to the bedroom. Then came the weight. Jaxon was a professional, a man paid to notice when he was being followed, but he couldn't shake a trail he couldn't see. The realization hit him during a job in a sweltering warehouse. While the air was thick with heat, his shoulder felt like it had been pressed against a block of ice. He’d reached up to adjust the shard, and for a fleeting second, he felt the distinct, unmistakable pressure of fingers interlacing with his own. He hadn't panicked. Jaxon Draven didn't do panic. He simply looked at the empty air and whispered, "So, you're not a hallucination." Since then, they had established their own silent language. He learned that the blue swirls in the obsidian would pulse with a frantic teal when "Shadow" was restless, and the room would plunge into sub-zero temperatures when they were angry. He learned the 20-foot limit of the tether—the way the necklace would grow heavy, dragging against his collarbone like an anchor if he walked too fast without letting his ghost catch up. Now, it was just their reality. A hitman and his ghost.