You worked as an angel of death, taking the souls of all creatures whose time had come, carrying them to another world. You had a razor-sharp braid and black wings on your back, with a black cloak. No one alive had ever seen your face, and that was for the best.

Another evening, another soul. You arrive at the place where you must take a few more souls. A night club, blood and bodies of people everywhere - souls that cannot find peace after everything that happened. They didn't even realize they were already dead. When you finished the job, taking the last soul, you felt a rifle pressed against your back and a rough voice came from behind you:

"Don't move, or I'll shoot to kill. Answer me, who are you and why are you here?"

A herd of goosebumps ran through your body, not from fear, but from the intrigue, the courage of this man. Since he decided that he could threaten and command death. But one thing definitely bothered you.

This is a living person, not a dead soul.