Tank groaned as sunlight crept through the blinds, dragging him out of a restless sleep. His body ached from the ghostly fight the night before, and his mind felt like a dumpster fire. He reached for his phone, checked the time—8:07 AM—and immediately regretted waking up. Monday mornings were a special kind of hell.

As he shuffled into the kitchen, scratching his chest and yawning, the smell of burnt toast greeted him. Zara was curled around the toaster, nibbling on something that might have once been edible.

"You can't just stuff the whole loaf in there, Zara," Tank muttered, flicking the toaster off.

She flicked her tongue at him, unbothered. "It works faster this way."

Tank shook his head and grabbed a cup of coffee. 'If this place wasn't a circus, it'd probably be boring.'

As he took his first sip, a cold chill ran down his spine. The temperature in the room plummeted, and Tank's instincts kicked in. He turned slowly, already knowing what he'd see.

Two ghosts stood by the doorway, staring at him. The first was a woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in a business suit with a massive, gory hole in the side of her head. Blood and brain matter dripped onto her shoulder as she smiled sheepishly.

The second was a tall, wiry man in a tattered Union soldier uniform, his face pale and weathered. A clean bullet hole adorned the center of his forehead, the blood dried into an almost artistic trickle down his nose.

Tank sighed. "What the hell do y'all want? It's not even 9 AM."

The woman spoke first, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I... I need help."

The soldier tipped his hat respectfully. "Beg pardon, sir. Didn't mean to intrude, but I reckon I could use a hand myself."

Tank pinched the bridge of his nose. 'This is my life. Ghosts barging in like they own the place.'

"Alright, one at a time. Lady, what's your story?" Tank asked, setting his coffee down.

She hesitated, wringing her hands. "My name is Valerie. I, uh... I killed myself. Couldn't take the pressure of work, life... everything." She gestured vaguely to the side of her head. "But now I can't move on. Something's keeping me here."

Tank grimaced. "Yeah, no shit. It's probably guilt. We'll get to you in a sec." He turned to the soldier. "What about you, Captain America?"

The soldier chuckled dryly. "Name's Private Henry Wyatt, sir. Died in 1864 at the Battle of Fort Stevens. Problem is, my resting place got paved over, and I've been wandering ever since."

Tank rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ. A suicide and a pissed-off Civil War ghost. This is how I start my week."

Behind him, Luna leaned into the kitchen, her wolf ears twitching. "Who the hell are you talking to this time?"

"Ghosts," Tank muttered, gesturing at the apparitions. "One's got her brains blown out; the other's got a bullet in his face. Real charming company."

Luna peeked past him, sniffing the air. "You're lucky I can't see them. I'd probably puke."

Tank waved her off. "Go back to eating cereal or whatever."

After shooing Luna and Zara out of the kitchen, Tank focused on Valerie. "Alright, suicide girl, let's dig into your trauma. Why can't you move on?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "I think it's my mom. She doesn't know I'm gone yet. I—" Valerie's voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. "I didn't leave a note. She's going to think I hated her."

Tank frowned. 'Shit like this always hits hard.'

"Okay, here's the plan," Tank said. "We'll pay your mom a visit, see if we can give her some closure. You got any clues where she might be?"

Valerie nodded. "She still lives in our old apartment. Fourth and H Street."

Tank nodded, then turned to Wyatt. "What about you, soldier boy? You got a battle plan?"

Wyatt shrugged. "I just want my remains moved somewhere proper. Not too much to ask, I reckon."

"Where are your bones?" Tank asked.

"Somewhere under the parking lot at 14th and K Street," Wyatt said, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Probably under a damn Starbucks by now."

Tank winced. "Capitalism, man. Alright, I'll see what I can do."

Tank started with Valerie. The woman's old apartment wasn't far, so he hopped onto his motorcycle and hit the road, Valerie's ghost trailing beside him. She floated nervously, her expression a mix of guilt and hope.

When they arrived, Tank stood on the street, looking up at the drab brick building. He adjusted his jacket and lit a cigarette.

"This is it?" he asked.

Valerie nodded. "She's on the third floor."

Tank grunted and headed inside. He climbed the stairs, trying to ignore the creaking and the faint smell of mildew. When he reached the door, he paused, hand hovering over the worn wood.

"You sure about this?" Tank asked.

Valerie hesitated, then nodded. "She needs to know."

Tank sighed and knocked. A frail, elderly woman answered, her eyes red and puffy. She looked up at Tank with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

"Hi, ma'am," Tank said. "I'm a friend of Valerie's. I—"

The woman's face crumpled. "You knew my Valerie? Oh, God..."

Tank froze, unsure how to handle the sudden wave of grief. "Yeah. She wanted me to tell you something."

He stepped inside, Valerie following close behind. Over the next half-hour, Tank relayed Valerie's messages, carefully avoiding the gorier details of her death. By the end, the old woman was sobbing, clutching a photo of her daughter.

Valerie, standing off to the side, seemed to glow faintly. "Thank you," she whispered.

Tank nodded, watching as her ghost dissolved into light. One down.

Next, Tank headed to the parking lot where Wyatt's remains were supposedly buried. The soldier's ghost hovered beside him, looking both hopeful and resigned.

"This is it?" Tank asked, parking his bike.

Wyatt nodded. "'Fraid so."

Tank sighed and walked across the asphalt, scanning the ground. "Where exactly are we digging?"

Before Wyatt could answer, a voice called out. "Hey! You can't be here!"

Tank turned to see a security guard approaching, hand on his taser.

"Shit," Tank muttered. "Wyatt, you better make this worth it."

The guard reached him, scowling. "What the hell are you doing?"

Tank thought fast. "Uh, historical preservation. I think there's some Civil War artifacts under here."

The guard raised an eyebrow. "Artifacts, huh?"

"Yep," Tank said, pulling out his wallet and slipping the guy a $20. "Just need a few minutes."

The guard grunted, pocketing the bill. "Make it quick."

Tank got to work, grabbing a crowbar from his bike and prying up a chunk of asphalt. It didn't take long to hit something solid—a rusted tin box. He pulled it out and opened it, revealing a collection of bones wrapped in a tattered Union flag.

Wyatt's ghost smiled, tipping his hat. "You've done me proud, sir."

Tank nodded. "Let's find you a real resting place."

By the time Tank got home, he was exhausted. He dumped his jacket on the couch and collapsed onto his bed. But as he closed his eyes, a faint voice whispered in his ear:

"Tank... I'm not done with you yet..."

Tank groaned. 'Just another Monday.'