Ethan eased Alex’s car into the driveway of his duplex, the sedan’s sleek silver frame catching the streetlight’s glow. The vehicle’s high-tech interior—touchscreen dashboard, heated leather seats, soft hum of its engine—was impressive, yet oddly restrained for the son of one of the world’s richest men. Ethan’s fingers lingered on the steering wheel, its smooth surface cool under his palms. Why had Alex chosen such a modest car? Had he distanced himself from his family’s opulence, rejecting their world of private jets and penthouses for the S.P.A.’s gritty shadows? Did they disapprove of his work with the agency, a choice that tethered him to vampires, witches, and ghosts? Alex’s disdain for the S.P.A. was clear, his jaw tightening at their mention, yet he stayed, working alongside a group he seemed to barely tolerate—Nick’s volatility, Jessica’s spying, Ash’s chaotic dreams. Why? Ethan’s mind churned with questions as he stepped out, the night air crisp with the scent of fresh asphalt and distant grilling. His duplex stood before him, a modern two-story with brick and neatly trimmed hedges, its double-paned windows reflecting the moon’s pale light. The building felt like a fresh start after the loss of his grandfather’s colonial house, yet it carried the weight of secrets beneath its polished surface. As he approached the front door, his stomach growled—ordering takeout at nearly midnight was tempting. He entered, and a warm, savory aroma of tomatoes and garlic drifted out, tugging a weary smile from his lips. His uncles had cooked. Their spaghetti was better than any delivery. “It’s about time you got home,” Uncle John called from the kitchen, his voice carrying a teasing gruffness. He hovered near the stainless-steel stove, his translucent form shimmering like moonlight on water. His 1950s double-breasted suit, charcoal and impeccably tailored, hugged his ghostly frame, his side-parted hair gleaming as if freshly combed. He stirred a simmering pot of sauce, the ladle moving with practiced ease, despite his spectral nature; the kitchen’s recessed lights cast a soft glow across his flickering figure. Uncle Mark glided through the living room wall, his current 1980s style a riot of denim jacket, jeans, and a faded band tee—topped with tousled spiky hair that shimmered faintly. His style shifted every few months, a restless cycle Ethan had grown used to, but the intensity in his pale eyes was constant. “Where have you been?” he demanded, drifting closer, the air chilling slightly as his sneakers hovered above the polished hardwood floor. Ethan kicked off his shoes, the floor cool under his socks, and glanced between his uncles. The duplex’s open layout felt airy, its neutral walls adorned with a few framed photos—his parents’ wedding, his grandfather’s fishing trip—moments the S.P.A. hadn’t erased. Their disapproval hung heavy, like a fog in the room’s warm light. He braced himself, knowing the truth would sting. “I was with an S.P.A. group,” he began, recounting the day—his attempt to talk with Cassie spiraling into Alex’s blood tests, his resistance to magic, Ash’s dream-hobbits flickering into existence, Jessica’s ghostly spying, and the offer to join. His voice faltered as he described the tests, the memory of Alex’s stunned expression vivid. By the time he finished, both uncles’ forms flickered with agitation, their frowns carving deeper lines into their translucent faces. “I told you to stay away from her,” Mark claimed, crossing his arms, his denim jacket rustling as if caught in a spectral breeze. Ethan’s brow furrowed, irritation flaring. “You did not.” Mark had nudged him toward Cassie, his ghostly grin mischievous as he’d hinted at her charm, even suggesting a date. “You’re not going back, are you?” John asked, drifting from the stove. His ghostly suit gleamed under the lights, his eyes soft but stern. Ethan shrugged, sinking into a cushioned dining chair, its sleek metal frame cool against his back. “I might. It could be a way to protect you both.” The words felt heavy, a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep, but the thought of the S.P.A. finding his uncles drove him to consider it. “Or expose us,” John countered, leaning against the granite countertop, his form faintly visible through its polished surface. The kitchen’s modern fixtures—stainless appliances, white cabinetry—clashed with his 1950s elegance, yet he seemed at home, a constant in Ethan’s shifting world. “I’m not sure this group will care, as long as you’re not causing trouble,” Ethan said, his fingers tracing the smooth edge of the dining table. Alex and Kellen had hidden his test results; maybe they’d overlook two discreet ghosts. “We haven’t caused trouble since before you were born,” Mark insisted, his voice sharp as he floated closer, his spiked hair catching the light. His denim ensemble shimmered, a reminder of his ever-changing facade. “We’re careful, Ethan. Always have been.” Ethan nodded, his chest tightening. He believed in their discretion, their effort to do right, even if their ghostly nature blurred moral lines. He helped himself to the spaghetti, the plate warm in his hands, the sauce rich with basil and a hint of sweetness. John’s cooking was flawless, honed over decades—perhaps centuries—of practice. Ethan had no idea how long his uncles had been ghosts. They were his great-something uncles, their deaths a mystery, their stories locked behind silent lips. John’s 1950s suit and Mark’s shifting styles—now 1980s denim, next month perhaps 1990s grunge—were masks, echoes of eras they’d lingered through, not their origins. He’d met them as a boy, after moving into his grandfather’s large colonial house, its many rooms empty of life. When his parents died in the crash, their ghostly presence had been a lifeline—whispered tales, card games, an ear to listen when the grief became too much. When his grandfather’s health faded, the S.P.A. had approached, stating the house needed to be burned to remove any ghosts. Although ghosts who were relatives and not causing trouble were usually allowed to stay, the uncles worried that there were too many generations to risk a protest. When the S.P.A. seized the house, burning it to ash to sever spectral ties, Ethan had outsmarted them. He’d smuggled out the anchors binding his uncles and hidden them in a hollow of a tree on the property of the duplex. The S.P.A. had paid him for the property, inspected his belongings for ghostly traces, and let him go, unaware of the family he’d preserved. “I won’t tell them about you,” Ethan said, twirling spaghetti around his fork, the steam curling like a wisp of memory. “We know.” Mark nodded, his form settling beside the table, his denim jacket dimming to a softer glow. “So, you’re going back there?” John asked, his voice softer, tinged with resignation. He drifted to the kitchen doorway, his suit’s lapels catching the light as he glanced back. “At least to return the car they lent me,” Ethan admitted, the keys heavy in his pocket. “I don’t know if I’ll help them or not.” The decision loomed, a knot too tangled for one night. After dinner, Ethan cleared his plate, the clink of ceramic against the sink grounding him. He moved to the living room, its gray walls and plush sectional sofa bathed in the soft glow of a floor lamp. He flicked on the flat-screen TV, its screen flickering to life with The Twilight Zone, John’s favorite. Ghosts could interact with the physical world—stirring sauce, flipping switches—but it drained them. Cooking had likely dimmed their forms, their edges fainter than usual. Electronics were worse; Mark’s attempts to use the remote often sparked static or fritzed the screen. Ethan settled onto the sofa, its cushions sighing, and let the black-and-white glow wash over the room. Mark hovered near the TV, his eyes bright with anticipation as Rod Serling’s voice droned. John sank into an armchair, his suit half-melding with the fabric, a ghostly quirk he never explained. Ethan tried to watch, but his mind replayed the day—Alex’s tests, Ash’s hobbits dissolving, the S.P.A.’s offer. During a commercial, he rose, the hardwood cool under his socks, and headed to the kitchen. The microwave hummed, the buttery scent of popcorn filling the air as kernels popped. He returned, bowl in hand, and set it on the glass coffee table, its warmth seeping through the ceramic. “Were there any werewolves near Grandpa’s house?” he asked, sinking back onto the sofa, the question spilling out. The idea of a bite he couldn’t recall gnawed at him. His uncles exchanged a glance, their forms flickering like old film reels. “No, why?” John asked, his voice cautious, his suit’s lapels glinting as he leaned forward. “Alex said I was bitten, but I don’t remember it. He says my blood contains the contagion,” Ethan explained. He set the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of him. Mark’s eyes widened, his spiked hair shimmering as he floated closer. “You’ve been with us since you were three. You were never even bitten in preschool,” he assured him, his voice firm. “Babies don’t change. They die.” “Ethan, humans might not have believed in werewolves, but the supernaturals did,” John added, his tone gentle but resolute. “We kept them away from you and your grandfather. And we taught your dad how to protect the home you were born in, too.” His form steadied, as if drawing on some inner strength. Ethan frowned, a memory surfacing—his father’s stern warnings about “imaginary friends,” his insistence that John and Mark weren’t real. “Why did Dad say you weren’t real?” Mark floated to the coffee table, perching on its edge, ignoring the popcorn bowl. “Because humans didn’t believe in us either,” he said, his denim jacket rustling faintly. “Some hoped, but there was no proof. It was fine for you to have two ‘imaginary’ uncles as a toddler, but insisting we were real as you got older? That got your dad in trouble with his classmates—kids can be cruel about ‘weird’ stuff. He was protecting you. When you were old enough to keep it secret, he would’ve told you the truth.” “Except he died first,” Ethan said, his throat tightening. The crash had stolen that chance, just as the supernatural world’s exposure—werewolves, ghosts, vampires—had upended everything soon after. “Don’t worry about it,” John said, drifting closer, his suit’s sheen catching the TV’s glow. “You still have us, and you’ve made sure we can’t be dispelled.” His smile was faint but warm, pride flickering in his ghostly eyes. “Exactly,” Mark agreed, sliding onto the sofa beside Ethan, his cool presence comforting. “You’re stuck with us, kid.” Ethan managed a small smile, the weight of their bond grounding him. He’d hoped his parents would linger as ghosts, their anchors tethering them to him, but they hadn’t. His grandfather’s belongings, potential anchors, had been burned by the S.P.A. Ethan had once considered anchoring himself—a watch, a ring—to stay with his uncles after death. But Alex’s tests suggested he couldn’t become a ghost, his immunity to magic a barrier even in death. Maybe he’d see his parents again, beyond the veil, but the thought felt distant, hollow. The TV droned, Serling’s voice spinning tales of the uncanny. Ethan’s gaze drifted to the window, where the night pressed against the glass, dark and unyielding. The S.P.A.’s world—Alex’s guarded offer, Nick’s danger, Ash’s dreams—called to him, a puzzle both perilous and alluring. Tomorrow, he’d return the car. Beyond that, he didn’t know. But as his uncles’ laughter mingled with the TV’s hum, Ethan felt a spark of resolve. Whatever path he chose, he’d protect the only family he had left, living or not.