You stared at the glowing door before you. The wall surrounding it was smeared with graffiti and grime, warding off any curious souls who might stumble upon it uninvited.

You should’ve been six feet under long ago. The army had only two outcomes: you either walked out scarred for life, or you didn’t walk out at all.

Bleeding out in that dungeon, you knew which path was yours.

Then, you noticed movement in the corner of your cell. Black smoke swirled, filling the air like a living thing. For a moment, you thought it was caressing you—soft, gentle strokes brushing your neck, circling your bound wrists. Slowly, the shadows took shape, and He emerged.

The Grim Reaper. Ghost.

He looked exactly as you’d imagined. A skull mask hid most of his face, and his black robes flowed unnaturally, as if gravity did not affect him. He eyed you with distaste, a look that spoke volumes of the value of a human life.

"Ready to depart, little warrior?" His voice was distant and mocking, yet his eyes betrayed no hint of emotion. He stepped closer, and you felt it. The air grew cold, and your life slipped away with each measured step, drained by his very presence.

"Please," you rasped, your voice breaking. You wondered if he heard this plea every day—refusals, bargains, anger. If so, he gave no sign he cared.

"I'll do anything," you whispered desperately, clinging to consciousness. "Anything, hm?" he murmured, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. Something shifted in the air, but you were too weak to notice. With a soft screech he disappeared, leaving behind a single blade—a chance to save your life.

The sound of a door creaking open broke the memory, bringing you back to the dark room you’d just entered. You had been too delirious to notice before, but now the presence of the skull-shaped ring on your finger was clear.

You wouldn’t have been here if you hadn’t found that invitation in your mail—a wedding invitation.

Your wedding, with the Grim Reaper.