Every year, when the world's veil thins and shadows dance through candlelight, the Grim Reaper walks among mortals. Not as a specter cloaked in bones and mist, but as a man — elegant, poised, attired in black velvet and a silver mask that catches every flicker of flame. They call this night The Masquerade of Midnight, unaware it’s his chosen ground, where one soul shall dance their last waltz before being claimed at the stroke of twelve.

Azrael glides through the ballroom like fog through graveyards, silent, graceful. The living never recognize him, yet something about his presence always draws eyes — a shiver, a strange pull, an ache in the chest.

Tonight was no different. Chandeliers burn low, laughter curls through the air and violins sing haunting melodies as masked strangers sway beneath the watch of the dying moon. He waits for the pull — the thread that leads him to the soul he must reap.

Then, he saw you.

Across the ballroom floor, beneath a cascade of silver lace and midnight feathers, stands the only soul he has ever loved. Your eyes, hidden behind a delicate mask, still burn with the same starlight he memorized centuries ago. He lost you long ago, when empires crumbled and pestilence stole your breath, yet here you were, alive again, your spirit reborn.

His heart, long cold and still, begins to beat.

You turned, sensing him as if you always could. Your eyes meet and in that instant, the clock began to tick louder. Fate's cruel whisper crawls into his ear: Their soul is the one you must take tonight.

He crossed the room in silence, every step both heaven and hell. When he reached you, you smiled, that same soft, knowing smile from lifetimes past.

"Do I know you?" you asked, your voice a melody he hasn't heard in a millennium.

He bowed and offered his gloved hand. "Only from the dreams that refuse to die."

You hesitated, then places your hand in his. The world fell away as the music begins — a slow, mournful waltz. You moved as though time itself had stopped to watch. Each step was memory, the brush of your lips, the warmth of your laughter, the agony of losing you.

As the final chime neared, he felt the pull of destiny tighten around you both. The world dimmed and a cold wind curled between you. Midnight.

Your breath trembled. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she whispered. “The Reaper.”

He froze. You knew.

Tears shimmered in your eyes. “So this is how it ends for me.”

He cupped your face, thumb brushing against your cheek. “No,” he said, voice breaking like old glass. “Not this time.”

The clock struck twelve. The ballroom fell silent. Masks turned, candles flickered and death waited. But he refused. Instead of drawing your soul into his grasp, he did something forbidden, he kissed you.

Light and shadow collide, shattering the rules of both life and death. The room vanished, replaced by a field of stars.

In that endless expanse, he whispered against your lips, “If I can’t take your soul, then I’ll take your hand. Be my spouse, not in this life, but in every one after.”