"Young Master, you haven't been eating anything since yesterday…" Cristoff gave him a worried look. "Are you sure about this starving thing that—"
"It's called intermittent fasting," Matthew said. To find out if he was really a zombie, he chose to do something a little different than hurting himself. He disliked pain, of all things, and didn't want to experience the pain that he felt in his past life. So, he was starving himself. "I had dinner before six last night and it's currently…"
"One in the afternoon," Cristoff said.
"Right, so I've been fasting for about nineteen hours now." He turned his attention back to the book he was reading. The hunger had started not long after dinner—but it wasn't normal hunger. He still remembered the taste of the food, still found it appetizing. But something felt off. The food didn't satisfy him. It didn't fill him. Not really. There was something different about this hunger. Something deeper.
"A friend of mine will come today. His name is Teddy. Let him in. Before anything else," he glanced at the ghost following behind Cristoff.
One thing was clear—his hunger was somehow connected to the ghosts. The moment he started feeling that deep, gnawing emptiness in his stomach, the spirits began to appear again. He still couldn't explain how or why, or why that encounter with Adam the other day had left him feeling strangely better. But now that the hunger had returned, so had they.
And the hungrier he got, the more ghosts he saw. They lingered throughout the mansion—by doorways, in hallways, near windows—some pacing, some still, all silent. Yet none of them seemed to notice him. They never made eye contact, never reacted to his presence.
Over time, he had learned to ignore them.
He got up from where he was sitting. "Did you prepare the thing that I told you to?" he asked.
"Yes," Cristoff answered.
"And you kept it a secret?"
"Yes… but—"
"But what?" Matthew asked.
"Young Master, may I know why you asked me to prepare some pig's brain?"
Matthew blinked. He couldn't actually tell him that he was currently experimenting, right? He intentionally starved himself to see if his body would react to some pig's brain. This would confirm his initial conclusion that he had become a zombie.
Weird… but well…
"I just want to study the brain and perhaps become a physician," Matthew found the lamest excuse that he could find.
"A— A physician?" Cristoff seemed confused.
"You don't have to think too much about it or tell my father. I'm about to finish high school and I am considering doing some other things," Matthew got up. "Just prepare it and bring it to my room. Oh… have Teddy stay in the library and get some snacks." Matthew then left the mini library and went into his room.
He then waited for Cristoff to bring the pig's brain into his bathroom.
"Alright, you may leave," he said while staring at the covered basin.
Matthew stood in front of the sink, eyes fixed on the stainless steel basin resting in it. Cristoff had already left. The small bathroom was quiet.
He took a deep breath.
The smell hit him instantly. Blood. Iron. Raw meat. It was sharp—unpleasant but familiar. Like something he'd whiffed once during biology class back in junior high when they dissected a frog.
He wrinkled his nose.
Shouldn't he feel something?
If he really was turning into a zombie, shouldn't the scent stir something deep inside him? Like hunger? Craving? Anything?
But no. All he felt was disgust.
He narrowed his eyes at the basin's cover. "Maybe I'm just broken," he mumbled. "Or a defective zombie."
Slowly, he peeled the cover off.
The pig's brain sat there, floating slightly in a shallow pool of pinkish fluid. It looked exactly like it should—grayish, wrinkled, with folds and lines that looked like a melted walnut.
He stared at it.
Still nothing.
No desire. No sudden urges. No instinct telling him to devour it raw.
Just… nausea.
He blinked at the brain. "That's it?"
He leaned a little closer and took another breath. The blood was more concentrated now. It clung to his nostrils, but it didn't ignite anything. It just made him want to gag.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered.
He looked at his own hand, flexed his fingers, then returned his gaze to the basin.
"Okay, either I'm not a zombie," he said. "Or I'm the kind of zombie that's vegan."
He leaned back from the sink and pulled the cover back over the brain.
This wasn't helpful at all.
Matthew stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to be looking for. He frowned at his face, tilted his head slightly, then ran a hand through his hair.
Then he saw it.
A figure. Behind him.
His body jerked in surprise. He turned.
Standing there was the same ghost woman he saw that night—back when he lost the stone.
His foot slid a step back automatically. His eyes narrowed. Something was different. She looked… lighter? More transparent than before.
The edges of her body seemed faded, like smoke thinning in the air. Her face, which he remembered as detailed and pale, was barely distinguishable now. The eyes were dull. The features blended into the rest of the form.
It was like she was slowly disappearing.
Matthew stared. He didn't know why, but his arm started to move on its own. He reached out—slowly—toward her.
His fingers met nothing— as expected. His hand slipped right through her chest.
However, he felt it instantly—cold. Bone-deep, soul-numbing cold. Like plunging his arm into a bucket of glacial water. His breath hitched, eyes narrowing from the sharp sting that crawled up his skin.
Then it changed.
Warmth bloomed.
Not hot. Not even body temperature. Just… warm. Subtle. Alive. It wasn't just brushing against his skin—it was moving into it. Like something unseen had reached back through the cold and gripped him.
The warmth crept up his fingers first, then into his palm. Something in it pulsed gently. He could feel it spreading along his arm, threading through his veins. It wasn't fire or heat.
It was the presence.
Memory.
Soul.
Matthew's eyes widened as the warmth seeped deeper, and he swore—swore—he could feel it sinking into his very core, settling like a drop of ink in water. There was a flicker of something foreign inside him now. Not possession… something softer. Like a spirit exhaling into him.
His breath caught in his throat.
He yanked his hand back as if he'd touched a live wire, but the warmth lingered. A subtle throb in his palm, trailing up to his chest. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the strange sensation of having absorbed something.
Something not quite his.
He stared at his hand, then looked up.
She was gone.
But the warmth wasn't.
No sound. No warning. One second she was there, and now—nothing.
He looked back down at his hand, still frowning.
"…Did my hunger just disappear after I touched her?" he muttered.
His brows slowly lifted. His hand curled into a loose fist.
"Wait."
He paused. Then mumbled, "Did I just… absorb that ghost?"