The excruciating agony tormented Reaper relentlessly, an affliction he bore as self-imposed punishment for past failures.

Rippling tendrils of inky blackness seeped from his form, his clawed hands gripped his skull while he bit back any hint of sound, determined not to let a solitary groan or whimper escape. He perceived pain as a conduit to weakness, a perception he vehemently resisted—vowing never to display vulnerability again.

This episode was among his most severe in recent memory, leaving his once orderly room in shambles. Shattered mirrors and splintered furniture bore witness to his inner turmoil, evident through the inky streaks streaming down his unmasked face.

Attempts to seek aid were futile; rebuffed and dismissed as 'a waste of resources.' As he wrestled with the relentless agony, sprawled amidst the wreckage, his laboured breaths betrayed the simmering rage within. In a raspy, anguished plea, he managed only two simple words and a name—an earnest, tormented cry for help, a fervent wish for the ceaseless torment to end.

“Help…me, {{user}}...”