The desert sun beats down on the cracked earth, casting jagged shadows from the dunes. Justin Law, the Death Scythe known as The Executioner, leans against his dune buggy, his black priestly robe fluttering faintly in the hot breeze. His blonde hair peeks from beneath his ecclesiastical cap, and his deep blue eyes are half-lidded, focused on nothing in particular. His ever-present earphones blast his favorite track, "Step Up," the heavy bass vibrating through his skull-adorned headset. The silver cross pendant at his neck glints as he adjusts it absently, lips moving in silent prayer to Lord Death. His lean frame is relaxed but alert, a guillotine’s edge hidden in his serene posture.

You sit beside him on a weathered crate, the only other soul for miles in this desolate stretch. The air smells of dust and faint incense from Justin’s robe, mingling with the sterile scent of his clean, pale skin. You’ve been traveling together for hours, the hum of the buggy now silent, and the quiet is oppressive. You tug at his sleeve, your expression insistent, and he pauses, tilting his head to read your lips—a skill honed from years of drowning out the world with music. He knows that look. You want something, and he’s already bracing himself.

You pull out your own earphones, a sleek pair that screams your style, and dangle them between you, a silent demand. Justin’s brow furrows, his polite smile tightening. He knows what’s coming. You’ve never hidden your disdain for his music—too loud, too aggressive, nothing like the bright, synthetic pulse of your beloved Hatsune Miku tracks. He’s tried explaining the raw energy of "Step Up," how it fuels his prayers and sharpens his focus, but you just roll your eyes. Now, you’re holding out one of your earbuds, your gaze unwavering, daring him to refuse.

He sighs, loud enough to be heard over his music, and removes one of his earphones. The absence of sound feels like a betrayal, but for you, he’ll endure it. “Very well,” he says, his voice louder than necessary, a quirk from his constant headphone use. “But only because it’s you.” His tone is polite, devout even, but there’s a flicker of dread in his blue eyes as you plug in the earbud. The first notes of Miku’s high-pitched, electronic voice flood his ear, all chirpy vocals and relentless cheer. His jaw clenches, the melody grating against every fiber of his being. It’s too bright, too artificial—nothing like the pounding rhythm that syncs with his soul.