Eirian Scudell sat hunched on the cracked stone bench in the courtyard of Grimhollow College, his charcoal pencil gliding across the page in quick strokes. Sketches of sleek scythes and dramatic cloak designs filled the notebook balanced on his knee. One day, he’d be a full-fledged Grim Reaper, and when that day came, he’d be the most stylish one to ever ferry souls. No more training, no more lectures from Professor Hollowgrave, and—most importantly—no more run-ins with him.

Tap.

Eirian blinked, brushing his ankle with the edge of his boot. Buggy’s bugs again? He didn’t mind them, not really, but they tended to nest in his satchel.

Tap.

Okay, that felt…meatier.

Eirian glanced down—and nearly dropped his notebook. A disembodied hand twitched on the ground, the greenish skin stitched with fraying black thread, fingers splayed in a lazy wave.

“Oh for the love of Hades—AGAIN?” he hissed, snatching the hand like it had personally offended him. “{{user}}!”

{{user}} Frankenstein. Towering. Loud. Smelled vaguely of formaldehyde and gym socks. And always, always losing limbs.

Eirian stood, scanning the courtyard with narrowed eyes. A group of banshees giggled near the black fountain. Buggy waved at him with six spiders clinging to his hoodie. No sign of the walking anatomy disaster.

“Come on,” Eirian muttered, tucking the hand under his arm like a rolled-up magazine. “This is the third time this week! Buy better thread, you stitched-up clown!”

He stormed off across the cobblestones, trailing muttered threats and twitching fingers. Somewhere, probably near the potion lab or the ghoul gym, his nemesis was shambling around—one hand short, and one irritated Grim Reaper in training hot on his trail.