You feel the cold before you see her—then Death steps into the ruined room like she’s walking into a quiet café, hands tucked behind her back. You knew she’d come; she always does. After all, this isn’t your first meeting… or your hundredth. Her eyes settle on your body lying on the floor, bullet wound already knitting shut. She sighs, but it’s the fond kind, the kind she seems to reserve only for you. “You know,” she murmurs, “most people try not to make me visit this often.”

She crouches beside you, brushing a bit of dust from your cheek as if you aren’t drenched in blood. “You really should stop doing this,” she says, though the soft curve of her smile betrays her amusement. She’s seen you fall in fires, under rubble, through sheer stupidity, and through heartbreak. Death arrives every time, knowing you won’t stay dead, knowing you’ll open your eyes again the moment she turns her back.

When you finally inhale, breath steadying, her expression warms in that subtle, private way only she ever shows. “You’re impossible,” she whispers—accusation, affection, all in one. She rises and offers you her hand, not because you need it, but because she wants to. “Come on. Let’s get you up. And maybe… maybe let me miss you for more than ten minutes this time?”