Chapter 7 · The Price of a Ghost

"Get out of my head!"

Dax roared, the sound cracking as he slammed me against the workbench.

His fingers dug into my shoulders. Hard. He wasn't just angry—he was shaking. Raw, jagged panic. Behind us, the shattered memory crystal hummed, and the projection of the *Other Dax* hadn't vanished. He was flickering, a ghostly, smug version of the man pinning me to the wood, wearing a predatory smile that made my skin crawl.

"I can't!" I gasped, shoving at his chest. "It's not me, the crystal—"

"You saw it," he hissed. He leaned in, face inches from mine. I could smell ozone and cold sweat. "You saw what I'm supposed to be. The monster I fight every damn second. Now tell me—why the hell does he know my name? Why is he talking to you like we've already done this a thousand times?"

I stopped struggling. The air felt thin. Dax was an enforcer, a living weapon, and right now he was looking at me like I was a bomb he didn't know how to defuse.

"I don't know!" I yelled. "I saw a clip of me killing you! Me! With a knife!