Ọnụọgụgụ ụda

Jax doesn’t believe in ghosts. But he believes in credits. So he’s here.The alley smells like wet trash and burnt plastic. Yellow police tape flaps in the wind. Cops left hours ago. Jax ducks under it. His boots splash in a puddle. The body is gone. Chalk outline washed away by rain. But Jax sees m…

Jax doesn’t believe in ghosts. But he believes in credits. So he’s here.The alley smells like wet trash and burnt plastic. Yellow police tape flaps in the wind. Cops left hours ago. Jax ducks under it. His boots splash in a puddle. The body is gone. Chalk outline washed away by rain. But Jax sees marks on the wall — thin scratches, like fingernails clawing for grip. He kneels. His eyes zoom in. The scratches spell one word, backward: HELP.