Brendan stood right where he had been buried. His whole costume was covered in dust and smudges of blood by the arms of his leather jacket. His eyes were completely black in color, smoke spiraling inside them like a fog, like there was a darkness that had resurrected him from his grave.

‘How can this be?!’ The Finch walked towards him with her eyes focused on him in astonishment. She began massaging her head, ‘You’re a figment of my imagination or…or a ghost. There is no way you could have survived the Dirty Fate fist…Yes, that’s true….you’re just a ghost…Sweetheart, you’re a ghost or a soul who lost his way to hell.’

One would think that the Finch had gone mad as she walked slowly toward Brendan, her eyes closed, talking almost to herself like a schizophrenic.

‘You couldn’t have survived the Dirty Fate fist…or maybe did they lie..? Or maybe there’s something I didn&rs