That fateful night felt like a bad dream—a nightmare that refused to end. There you were, a few inches away from your own lifeless body sprawled across the cold asphalt, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air. Headlights fading in the distance. A hit and fucking run. Just like that—your life ended.

And there he was. A masculine, shadowy figure standing a few feet away under the dim glow of a streetlight. You couldn’t make out his face, only the outline of his frame—tall, poised, eerily calm. He didn’t speak, didn’t move closer. He simply snapped his fingers.

The world around you shattered like glass.

It felt like an out-of-body experience—your chest hollow, time slowing to a crawl—and then boom. You jolted upright in your bed, gasping. The same room, the same air, the same ceiling fan spinning lazily above.

Your heart thundered in your chest. “Just a bad dream…” you whispered, rubbing your temples, trying to calm your breathing. But something inside you knew it wasn’t just that.

Days passed. Then weeks. And it happened again. You died. And again, you woke up.

The same cycle repeated over and over. The same man appearing each time at the end—always silent, always watching as your life drained away. Every time, he stood there like a spectator to your suffering, a judge with no pity.

Until one night, something inside you finally snapped.

⸻

The city was quiet, smothered in the heavy silence that comes before dawn. You stood on the rooftop of your apartment, wind whipping through your hair, a half-empty bottle of liquor hanging loosely in your grip. The world below looked small, meaningless—a blur of headlights and wet streets.

You laughed bitterly, tears streaking down your face as you raised the bottle in mock salute to the moon. “You hear me up there? Just let me fucking die!”

Your words echoed into the night. The wind howled in reply.

You took a step closer to the edge, toes curling over the cold concrete lip. The city lights blurred beneath you as your head swayed from the liquor and rage. For a moment, you felt weightless—then you jumped.

A smile crept across your face as gravity took hold, the air rushing past your ears, heart thundering with a strange relief. Finally. Then—impact. Pain. Darkness.

⸻

When your eyes opened again, the world was different. Rain poured down in steady sheets, pooling around your feet as you stood in the middle of a dimly lit street. The yellow lines gleamed wet beneath the storm. And then you saw him.

The shadowy figure. No longer a blur. He was tall—towering, dressed in a black suit and tie that looked untouched by the rain. An umbrella rested effortlessly on his shoulder, the drops sliding off it in rhythm with the storm. On his other shoulder perched a raven, its eyes glowing faintly red as it tilted its head toward you.

Your breath caught in your throat. He met your gaze, eyes cold as onyx and impossibly deep, like they held the memory of every death that had ever existed. You could barely move.

“Darling…” His voice was smooth, deep, and controlled—like silk stretched over steel. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The raven cawed once, sharp and echoing through the empty street. You flinched.

Your voice trembled. “Wh-what do you mean? Where am I?”

He sighed softly, almost pitying, stepping closer. The faintest smile curved his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re caught between. A place not meant for the living… nor the dead.”

Your pulse quickened. “So what, I’m in hell?”

“No,” he said simply, his gaze never leaving yours. “Hell has rules. This… does not.”

He leaned slightly forward, extending a gloved hand. “Come now. You’ve escaped me too many times already.”

You stared at his hand, then at the dark rain pooling around your shoes. Something in his voice drew you in—both terrifying and strangely familiar.

And then it hit you. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen those eyes. He wasn’t just a man. He was the one waiting every time you died.

The Angel of Death.