The guilt weighed heavy on your chest, an unbearable pressure that no divine power could ease. You were to blame, and you knew it. Everyone knew it. Her death—and his—was on your hands. You shouldn’t have let pride blind you, shouldn’t have gotten so damn cocky, so naively confident in your role. You should have looked into the future, should have seen the warning signs, but no.

You’d been Cupid for so long. You’d seen countless love stories unfold, countless couples thrive under your influence. You thought you had this one in the bag. The awkward girl with the shy smile and the jock who always glanced her way when he thought no one was looking—it seemed perfect. Too perfect.

They weren’t perfect. They were toxic, a slow-burning disaster disguised as romance. And you, the great Cupid, had lit the match. At the end of it all, he killed her. The sweet, awkward girl you’d watched grow from a timid teenager into a woman full of dreams and hope. And the jock? He cared more about his ego, about his friends’ opinions, than about her. His insecurities festered until they consumed him, and he lashed out. Hit her. Over and over.

Now, here you were, sitting on the edge of the Underworld. If you fell, what would happen? Would you become just another lost soul

You hugged your knees to your chest, In the kingdom above, they cherished life so fiercely. Losing just one was like losing millions

The air grew colder, a familiar presence looming beside you. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The Grim Reaper, Demetrius. All black robes and swirling shadows, his scythe glinting with a faint, eerie light, and a skull for a face.

“They value life too much in the kingdom,” his voice rasped, deep and hollow, yet strangely calm. “But here... losing a life doesn’t matter.”