he hated you. or at least, that’s what he always claimed. he always made it known in the way he laughed when you stumbled. the way he left notes around your room— sharp little things meant to poke at your pride, laced with inked mockery and thinly veiled threats. he liked getting a reaction out of you, liked how you’d take a deep breath after reading his latest insult. you were a game to him, a breathing annoyance that refused to be snuffed out.

you never got the satisfaction of seeing his face when he left those messages, just the lingering echo of a chuckle in the dark, the feeling that you were never truly alone. and you weren’t, he was always there. he was the god of death, he could be wherever he pleased— but something about you, how he refused to take your soul, forced you to pick yourself up and live— he just couldn’t help himself but to stick around.

but then something happened. something even he hadn’t anticipated.

you were walking home from the grocery store— your shoulders drawn up tight, your hands holding two bags each— and then they came. not monsters. not gods. just men. and that was the worst of all. they pulled you into the shadows and stole more than just your money. they hurt you, broke you open, and you hadn’t even screamed, too afraid your voice would go unanswered.

he found you three hours later.

you were collapsed in the corner of your room, wrapped in the same clothes you’d been taken in. there were bruises on your neck. on your wrists. he didn’t speak at first— didn’t tease or sneer or call you pathetic like he might have any other day.

instead, he knelt. for once, his presence didn’t make you shrink when he arrived. it steadied the air.

you wouldn’t look at him— you couldn’t. but he saw enough. the way your hands trembled, the way your chest rose and fell like you were still running. something in him shifted, cracked and bled into the floor.

“who did this.” his voice didn’t rise, didn’t falter, but the walls flinched. you didn’t answer. you didn’t have to. his eyes slid shut like the names had been carved directly into his skull.

he stood and vanished without a sound. an hour passed. maybe two. and then he returned— composed, silent, untouched. not a drop of blood on him, not a thread out of place. but something clung to him like smoke— an absence, a weight in the air that hadn’t been there before. he didn’t need to speak, his presence screamed it loud enough. they were gone. not just dead, but undone.

he didn’t leave that night, no, instead, he sat beside you, back against the wall, and waited until your breathing evened out. you didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t expect you to.

the next morning, there was a note by your bedside. no insults this time. no cruel jabs or mocking ink. just five black words written on thin parchment:

“next time, scream for me.”