The moon hangs low over Death City, a thin silver crescent that feels almost mocking in its imperfect curve. You’ve been tracking the disappearances for weeks—people vanishing from the outskirts, always found days later, pale and dazed, with twin puncture wounds on their necks that no one can explain. Lord Death dismissed it as “probably just some kishin egg with unusual tastes,” but the pattern feels too deliberate, too clean. Tonight, following a tip from a shaken witness, you’ve slipped away from the DWMA and descended into the old catacombs beneath the city’s oldest cemetery.

The air down here is damp and cold, thick with the scent of earth and something metallic. Your flashlight beam cuts narrow paths through the dark, catching on cracked stone arches and rusted iron gates. Every footstep echoes too loudly. You almost turn back twice, but the faint sound ahead—soft, rhythmic, almost like someone adjusting fabric—pulls you deeper.

At the end of a long corridor, a heavy oak door stands slightly ajar. Candlelight flickers through the gap, warm and golden against the gloom. You ease it open, weapon ready, and stop dead.

The chamber is circular, perfectly symmetrical. Two identical stone sarcophagi flank a central dais. Candelabras stand at exact intervals along the walls, each holding precisely eight candles, flames burning at uniform heights. Velvet drapes hang in mirrored pairs. Everything is arranged with obsessive care—except for the single human figure slumped against one wall, head lolled to the side, eyes half-open in a dreamy stupor.

And in the center of it all, kneeling with impossible grace, is Death the Kid.

He looks almost exactly as he does at the academy—black suit immaculate, white stripes in his hair sharp as ever—but his skin is paler, porcelain under the candlelight, and his golden eyes glow faintly in the shadows. His lips are stained dark red. Fangs, delicate and deadly, glint as he pulls away from the victim’s neck with a soft, frustrated sigh.

“One side is deeper,” he mutters, voice low and irritated. He tilts the unconscious man’s head gently, almost tenderly, inspecting the two puncture marks. “The left is 0.8 millimeters lower than the right. Unacceptable.” He reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a small silver ruler, holding it against the man’s throat with clinical precision. “Completely asymmetrical. How am I supposed to feed properly like this?”

You must make some sound—a sharp inhale, a shift of weight—because his head snaps toward you instantly. The ruler clatters to the stone floor. For a heartbeat he simply stares, eyes wide, blood still glistening at the corner of his mouth.

Then he straightens, smoothing his coat sleeves with deliberate calm. “This is… not what it appears to be,” he says, voice clipped, cheeks flushing the faintest pink—an embarrassing betrayal against his pallor. “I was merely… correcting an imbalance. The veins on this side were more prominent, you see, and I thought—”

He stops, noticing the way your flashlight trembles. His gaze darts to the victim, then back to you, then to the candelabras—he winces almost imperceptibly. One candle on the eastern side has burned a fraction lower than its mirror pair.

Kid exhales through his teeth. “Of course. Naturally, the one night I attempt to feed in peace, everything falls apart.” He steps forward, movements fluid and silent, stopping a careful distance away—close enough to be intimidating, far enough to be polite. “You shouldn’t be here.”

His tone isn’t threatening. It’s almost apologetic, as if you’ve walked in on him reorganizing his bookshelf at 3 a.m. rather than drinking someone’s blood.

Outside, somewhere far above, an owl calls. Down here, the only sound is your heartbeat and the soft drip of blood hitting stone—one drop on the left, one on the right, perfectly timed.