Mass Grave of My Failures

"Sullivan family? Didn’t expect them to get involved." His tone was cool, almost amused, but there was a hint of calculation beneath it.

Watching Grant take all this in stride, I let out a long, world-weary sigh. Why did I have to be a system, of all things? And if I had to be a system, why a romance system? And if I had to be a romance system, why did I get stuck with the one guy in the universe who’s married to his job and allergic to women?

How is someone like Grant ever supposed to give his heart away? Sure, he can have relatives, a wife, even kids—but real love? Forget it. His affection is like the deadliest poison—hurts everyone, including himself. Grant knows it, too. That’s why he plays the dutiful son under Mrs. Whitmore’s thumb, letting her think she’s in charge, all so he can take her down when the time is right. Getting this guy to fall in love? I’d have better luck hitting the Powerball. Honestly, I should just buy a scratch-off and call it a day.

"Let’s go back to the estate," Grant said, his voice brooking no argument.

Grant slid his blade into its sheath, wiped clean, and slipped into the black SUV waiting by the drive. The engine purred, headlights sweeping over the gravel as the car pulled away. I drifted at the back of the group, a lonely ghost with nowhere to go. My host was long gone. I checked my points—yep, still not enough to hire a new host. I trudged along, feeling sorry for myself, when—bam!—someone yanked me into the roadside bushes.

"Little girl, what are you doing? It’s too dangerous!" The old man’s voice was gravelly but gentle, his grip steady, like he’d spent a lifetime scooping up strays.

I blinked up at him. The hand that grabbed me belonged to an old man with a snowy white beard. A few others in plain clothes clustered behind him, all gawking at me in surprise. Something felt off. I glanced down at my own hand—semi-transparent. Wait a sec. He’s not human.

When a system leaves its host, it goes into a kind of spirit form—a ghost, basically, at least in this world. Go figure: even after death, family drama finds you. Is there no escape?

"Little girl, do you know who that is? That’s the head of the Whitmore family! If we ghosts mess with him, we’ll be scattered to dust!" His voice quivered, and the others nodded, faces pale as moonlight, like they half-expected to vanish on the spot.

They definitely thought I was a ghost, too. I shook my head, trying to sound reassuring. "Thank you, but I’m fine." My voice came out softer than I meant, and for a second, I almost believed it myself—just another lost soul, drifting through someone else’s story.

A woman in a faded dress piped up, "You’re lucky you didn’t see those women in the mass grave. They say they’re from the mansion, and every one of them lost their soul before being sent here!" Her eyes flicked nervously toward the pit, like she was waiting for something to crawl out.

Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it. Of course they have no souls—the hosts all bailed… If only they knew, it was more like a mass system crash than any kind of haunting. If only.

We chatted for a bit, and I learned they were from a place called Willow Creek, out near the border—a spot that got hit hard by gang wars. The mob wiped out their village, and with no one left to bury them, they became wandering ghosts. From the border to the city… who knows how long they’ve been drifting. The way they told it, it sounded like a never-ending road trip from hell.

They’d seen me get up close to the Whitmores and come out fine, so they figured I was some noble lady, protected by the family’s aura. They escorted me to the edge of Maple Heights, looking out for me even in death. Their kindness made my nonexistent heart ache a little, which is saying something for a system.

"Miss, you’d better go home soon. If you wander too long, your soul will fade away." The old man’s voice was gentle, but there was a deep sadness there—a longing for home that would never be fulfilled, no matter how many lifetimes passed.

But looking at their nearly transparent souls, it was clear they’d disappear even sooner. I couldn’t just stand by and watch. Gritting my teeth, I traded my last few points for a prop. With a flourish, I pulled out a ceramic urn—my last hope for them.

"Bury this urn by the mass grave. As long as you stay close, your souls won’t fade away. When I get the chance, I’ll send you home." I pressed the urn into the old man’s hands, praying my last points would buy them just a little more time.

Everyone just stared at me, stunned. The old man clutched the urn with trembling hands. "Miss is so kind! So kind!" Tears shimmered in his eyes, and the others bowed their heads in gratitude. For a brief moment, I almost felt human.

By the time I made my way through the estate to Grant’s bedroom, he’d already showered, changed into sweats, and was sitting at his desk reading reports. His dark hair was still damp, tucked behind his ears. The glow from the desk lamp cut across his sharp profile, casting shadows as his eyes zeroed in on the paperwork.

They were soft, hazel eyes, but always seemed to hold a frost—a look so cold it could freeze you in your tracks if you got too close.

"Chicago shipped ten thousand pounds of red granite…" The words drifted out, muttered under his breath.

Grant mumbled as he read, "That old county clerk from Chicago tries to pass off granite every year." He snorted, lips curling with a hint of amusement, like he’d seen this scam a hundred times before.

…

"Please appoint the top grad…" Another report, another sigh.

Grant frowned. "Not a single one’s got any charisma. What’s the point of picking stars?" He tapped the paper, eyes narrowed, daring the names to impress him.

…

Grant hated being waited on, so his bedroom was always empty. Probably no one else knew he had this habit of muttering to himself while reading. The only sounds were the soft shuffle of paper and the occasional sigh from Grant—quiet, but never peaceful.

I hovered behind him, watching as he slogged through document after document. Sure, Grant had taken over the family, but Mrs. Whitmore wasn’t giving up power without a fight. So all the reports sent to him were trivial, almost laughable. Like, Fresno shipped over fifty thousand pounds of sea bass this year. Or, the second wife of the Duluth mayor gave birth to a son late in life and cherished him dearly, so he asks Mr. Whitmore to grant a name. It was like watching a king forced to play house with toy soldiers. The whole thing was almost tragic, if it wasn’t so absurd.

…