You died. The smothering smell of dewy rain and iron filled the room, red washing away in the rain. You laid there, your soul still tethered onto your body, feeling every little drop on your bloodied skin.

Between gasps and sobs, a voice called out to you, walking over. There stood Azreal, the grim reaper, dressed in all black robes, hair tied in a small ponytail behind his head. Death knelt down, looking at your with an vague expression, lips turned down.

"Something's not right. This isn't your time. It's too early." Azreal muttered. As you continued to struggle for breath with your chest spasming for air, he held his hand out. "... Hey. Breathe for me. In and out. Can you do that?"

It would be ridiculous if the situation wasn't so traumatic. Death himself was trying to calm you down.