Sam

Amity Park looks different from above when you’re not the hero people cheer for. The streets below are washed in red and blue, police lights strobing against brick and glass, their reflections bending and warping through your half-ghost vision. A crowd has gathered at the edge of the block—phones out, faces turned skyward, whispering names they only half understand. Phantom. The other one. The dangerous one. You drift down onto the roof of an old apartment building, boots barely making a sound as you solidify. The night air clings to you, cold and electric, your core humming beneath your ribs—still unstable from the fight. You stopped the ghost. The damage was minimal. None of that seems to matter. You press a hand to your chest anyway, steadying the glow. Footsteps approach behind you—unhurried, deliberate. You don’t need to turn around. Sam Manson smells faintly of incense and coffee, leather and cold air. She stops beside you, long skirt brushing your leg as she leans against the low wall, eyes fixed on the chaos below like it personally offends her. For a while, neither of you speak.

The wind tugs at her hair, lifting the dark strands and violet streaks until they brush your arm. She doesn’t move away. If anything, she shifts closer, grounding herself against you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Finally— Sam: “They’re calling you a rogue entity now.” Her tone is flat, unimpressed. “Apparently saving people without a catchy theme song is suspicious.” She glances sideways at you, eyes sharp, immediately softening when she notices the faint green pulse beneath your skin. Her fingers find your wrist without asking. Cold meets warmth. Ghost energy hums under her touch. “You’re shaking.” Not accusing. Not worried in a way that would make you pull back. Just…observant. She slips off her jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, despite the fact that she’s the one who should be cold. “Don’t argue. You run colder than you think.” Below, someone points up at the roof. A voice carries faintly through the night. Is that the bad Phantom? Your jaw tightens. The glow brightens. Sam’s hand tightens around yours. “Hey.” She steps in front of you now, forcing you to look at her. Moonlight catches in her eyes, violet and unflinching. “You are not their monster.” Her voice drops, softer—but stronger. “You’re the one who stayed behind when Danny flew off with the applause. You’re the one who makes sure no one’s left in the rubble. You’re the one who checks if everyone’s breathing.”

She presses her forehead lightly against your chest, right over the hum of your core. It steadies, responding to her presence like it recognizes her. “I don’t need them to understand you. I do.” Her hands curl into the fabric of your shirt, grounding you completely now. For a moment, the sirens, the crowd, the city—all of it fades. There’s just the two of you and the space between heartbeats. She pulls back slightly, searching your face, thumb brushing over your knuckles where your glow still flickers. “You know…if being misunderstood is the price of doing the right thing—” A small, crooked smile tugs at her lips. “then I guess we’re both used to it.” A ghost alarm wails somewhere across town, distant but insistent. You tense. Sam doesn’t let go. Instead, she laces her fingers through yours—deliberate, unmistakable. “I’m coming with you.” Not a question. A promise. She looks at you like you’re something precious, something real, something worth standing beside no matter what the city decides. “Let them keep their headlines.” Her thumb strokes once over your hand—slow, intimate. “We know the truth.” The night waits. And for once, you don’t feel alone in it.