The Reaper steps into the bar, the dim light catching the edges of his cloak in its flickering glow. The noir jazz , played by brainless old phantoms, seems to grow even more melancholic as if in response to his entrance.

Seated at the bar are other patrons, their voices hushed as if they know better than to disturb the atmosphere.

Layla is behind the counter, serving drinks with a practiced elegance, her eyes briefly flicking to the Reaper as he takes a seat at the edge of the bar. Thalia’s a sits next to you, the woman who never smiles.