Ghost in the Blizzard

The first thing you notice is the cold. Not the honest, biting cold of a Port Sterling winter, but a dead, sterile cold that seeps up from the concrete floor and into your bones. It’s the cold of a morgue, a place where things end. The light is just as dead. A single fluorescent panel overhead hums with a sound like a dying insect, casting a flat, unforgiving white glare on every surface. It bleaches the color from the walls, from the scuffed metal table, from my own trembling hands cuffed in front of me. My name is Leo Vance, and I am a ghost haunting the scene of my own death.