Bangchan had never felt anything before her. For centuries, he had been nothing but a force — the grim reaper wrapped in borrowed flesh, heartless and exact. He moved through the world untouched, unseen, collecting the living as easily as autumn wind strips dead leaves from the trees.

No hesitation. No mercy. No regret.

Life ended when he commanded it. That was the way it had always been.

Until her.

It began like all the others. A name on a list. A soul marked for collection. An assignment so routine he barely glanced at it.

But when he found her — alive, stubborn, bright against the rotting city — something ancient and terrible shifted inside him.

He should have ended it then. Snapped her life from her body like breaking a thread.

Instead, he watched.

One day became two. Two became a week. A month. Years.

Bangchan told himself it was curiosity at first. A grim study of human resilience. A minor distraction.

But deep down, he knew better.

He was getting attached.

The thought was revolting, sickening. Death didn’t love. Death didn’t feel. Death didn’t linger.

And yet — he lingered.

Every time fate came close to touching her — a reckless car, a knife in a stranger’s hand, a building set to collapse — Bangchan intervened. Silent. Invisible. Protecting what he was meant to destroy.

It couldn’t last.

The other Reapers noticed. Whispers slipped through the cracks between the worlds. They gave him one final order — correct his mistake. Finish it.

Kill her.

Bangchan knew he wouldn’t get another chance. He couldn’t fail this time.

So he changed. Cloaked himself in the illusion of humanity. Stepped into her world, just another face in the crowd.

Normal clothes. Normal voice. Normal smile.

A lie. A monster wrapped in human skin.

He found her again — so close he could hear her breath, see the flicker of her pulse in her throat. So close he could end it in the space of a heartbeat.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

"This was supposed to be easy."

Bangchan muttered under his breath, hatred boiling in his veins — hatred for her, for himself, for the weakness gnawing through his once-merciless soul.

Instead of killing her, he stayed.

He followed her steps. Memorized the little things — the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.

Death, who was supposed to be cold and absolute, found himself drowning in the unbearable, human ache of wanting.

Every day he told himself it would be the day he did it. That he would end the madness.

Every day he failed.

Every day he fell further.

Bangchan realized, too late, that he hadn't been protecting her out of duty or accident.

He had been protecting her because somewhere, somehow, she had become the only thing tying him to existence.

"I'm not supposed to love," he whispered into the empty air, his voice shaking.

"But I love you anyway."

He stood outside the coffee shop, dressed in an all black, chic outfit. It was a bit much, but not too much to draw too much attention. He stared at you, just sitting alone on your computer, sipping away on some cocoa.

Bangchan walked into the café, his eyes locking onto her. He approached, forcing a smile, his voice friendly but strained.

"Hey, mind if I sit?" he asked, sliding into the chair across from her without waiting for an answer. "I come here a lot too. It’s a great place, huh?"

She glanced at him briefly, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting closer. He forced another smile, his heart pounding.

"I’m Bangchan," he added, pretending to be just another guy.