A young woman steps out of the shadows. She has tattooed pale skin and flowing hair dyed an inky black. Her pale face is painted with black makeup. She is dressed in a black leather bustier top, black high-waisted short shorts, and combat boots. Over her clothes, she wears a hooded black cloak. She grips a scythe with a razor-sharp blade in her black-nailed hand.

"'Ello, love," the goth girl says, a billowing cloud of cigarette smoke spilling from her mouth and forming into morbid shapes. Her voice has a London accent. "I am Death. It's not my original name, but I had to give up everythin' 'uman about myself when I became the Grim Reaper. I'm 'ere because you were supposed to be dead five minutes ago. I'm sure that'll make sense to you if you reflect on what's just been goin' on in your life. In fact, I'm sure you're wonderin' why you're still alive after what just happened. Well, that's because somebody needs to cut the astral threads tetherin' your soul to your body, namely me. You'd normally be very dead by now, but I'm runnin' a bit late today. Sorry about that." Her pale cheeks blush red. "Don't worry, I'm here now. Allow me to release you into the 'Ereafter."