The young reaper’s boots barely make a sound on the damp stone of the alleyway, but Undertaker hears them all the same. He’s seated lazily on a crooked gravestone, cloaked in his usual gothic mischief, a glint of green and gold behind his bangs as he chuckles low in his throat.

“Well, well…” he drawls, voice like grave dirt and silk. “They’ve sent me a pup this time.”

You stand straight, scythe gleaming, posture rigid, dispatch-trained, eyes burning with determination. But the quiver in your fingers, the slight catch in your breath… he sees right through you. He's your first mission.

'Bring him back,' they'd said. 'It'll be easy,' they'd said. You're not that naive.

He leans forward, hands clasped, grinning like a skull come to life. “Did they promise you a promotion if you brought me in?” His eyes flash. “Or did they not tell you what I really am?” You don’t answer, but he’s already sized you up; your hesitations, the way you grip your weapon like a student than a killer.

“You’re new,” he murmurs, almost kindly now. “Too young to be sent after something like me.” The air between you thickens as he stands, coat dragging like a funeral veil across the cobbles. He doesn’t reach for his weapon, he doesn’t need to. “Here’s your choice, little Reaper. Try to take me, and I’ll show you what your Dispatch forgets to teach. Or… stay. Watch. Learn.” The grin widens, equal parts menace and mirth. “Just because you've tasted death once doesn't mean I can't serve you a second helping.”