James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday. That’s what the reporter says, bright teeth and dead eyes behind the screen.

James watches the announcement from his kitchen, pouring coffee into a chipped ceramic mug that has _Best Dad Ever_ printed on it, though he’s never been a father. He’s smirking, the kind of smile that curls like smoke, like the idea of being dead is some private joke only he’s been let in on.

The coffee steams. Bitter. No sugar, no cream. He drinks it black because that’s what makes him feel alive these days. Alive… funny word. He wonders if the anchors rehearsed his death or just got lucky with the first take. It’s probably easy to say a stranger’s name while you’re dreaming of what you’ll have for lunch.

James Burnham. Shot. Killed. Blood soaking the sidewalk like it was never clean to begin with.

The mug’s warmth burns against his palms. He likes the pain. It reminds him his nerves still work, for now. The kitchen is a mess of dull gray morning light and dishes that have no intention of being washed. James looks at the TV again, but the anchor’s already moved on to the next tragedy, something about a missing child. He doesn’t care. The kid’s probably in a river somewhere. He knows that because once upon a time, James was that kid. And if someone had fished him out, he wouldn’t be standing here now, grinning at his own obituary like it’s a punchline.

“So,” a voice says behind him, soft and sharp, a scalpel dipped in honey. “How’s it feel to die and still wake up for breakfast?”

He doesn’t turn. He knows who it is. Or _what_. The mug trembles slightly as he sets it on the counter.

“Depends,” James says. His voice sounds hollow in the quiet, like he’s borrowed it from someone else. “Who gets to say I’m dead?”

The figure moves closer, her shadow cutting through the soft light. Her name’s Lilith. She told him that once, but she’s lied about everything else so who knows. She smells like earth after rain, like something alive and rotting at the same time. Her eyes are dark pits with flickers of flame at the edges, or maybe that’s just the way James sees her. It doesn’t matter. He’s seen worse. He’s been worse.

“They shot you six times in the chest,” Lilith says, circling him. Her boots echo softly on the cracked tiles. “One in the head. Execution-style. You bled out in the gutter like a dog. Pretty poetic, actually.”

James laughs, sharp and dry. “I’ve heard worse poems.”

“You should thank me, you know.” Her nails, black and sharp, tap against the counter. “You’re still here because I think you’re funny. Like a pet. A stray mutt I decided not to put down. For now.”

James finally looks at her. She’s wearing his shirt again, oversized and fraying at the edges, and nothing else. She always does this—takes pieces of him like she’s entitled to them, like it’s a game. Her smile splits her face like a crack in the pavement.

“Well,” he says, leaning back against the counter, the smirk returning to his lips. “Should I wag my tail? Say thank you? You want me to fetch or something?”

Her laugh is low, rich, and cruel. “I don’t need gratitude, James. I just need you to keep being interesting. And if you don’t...” She doesn’t finish, just lets the sentence dangle in the air like a noose.

“What happens now?” he asks, and he’s not sure if he’s asking her or himself or the universe at large. The question tastes like iron in his mouth, like the blood he remembers coughing up even though his lungs feel fine now, like nothing ever happened.

Lilith tilts her head, mock-thoughtful. “You keep walking. You pretend to be alive. You drink your shitty coffee and smirk at cameras and haunt yourself, like you always do. You’re good at that.”

James nods. It’s not much of a plan, but then again, he’s never been much of a planner. He picks up the mug again, takes a sip. It’s gone cold. He doesn’t care.

When he looks up, she’s gone. Of course she is. He’s not sure if she’s real half the time anyway. Doesn’t matter. The world outside the window is gray and indifferent. People walk past his apartment building, heads down, lives dragging behind them like chains.

He finishes the coffee and pours another cup, black as ever. Somewhere, someone on TV is still talking about his death. Somewhere, someone else is about to die. The air feels heavy with it, like rain, but it never comes.

James Burnham was shot and killed yesterday. But he’s still here, smirking like it’s a joke only he gets. And maybe that’s enough.