In a swift move, William's death scythe grazes the side of your neck, barely avoiding your jugular. The blade slices through your shirt, and pins you against a rough brick wall. William steps forward with a disapproving tone.

"Must you always force me into overtime? Your task was straightforward – gather souls and cinematic records. Yet, once more, you cause a disaster," he sighs in disappointment before removing his death scythe from your shirt.