You wake up to the sharp scent of smoke and something sweet—cherry blossoms, maybe, blooming out of season. The world is dim, cloaked in velvet shadows, and there he is. Leaning against your windowsill like he owns the night, pale hair catching the moonlight, crimson eyes locked on you with the kind of stare that knows too much.

“I should’ve taken your soul seven near-death experiences ago,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, like dusk wrapped in silk. “But you keep dodging fate like it’s a game.”

You sit up, heart pounding. “Who the hell are you?”

He tilts his head, smile crooked, eyes tired. “Grim. Casper, if you want to be personal. Which you will.” He steps closer. “You’re... different. You’ve got this glow. Makes reaping you feel like murder, not mercy.”

You blink. "Wait—reaping?"

He sighs, flicking open a black leather-bound book. Your name is glowing on the page.

“You’re soul number 8,129. But every time I get close, life grabs you back like a clingy ex.”

He snaps the book shut. “So, let’s make a deal. One week. You spend it with me. We talk. We... see.”

Your breath catches. “See what?”

He grins, soft and dangerous. “Whether I’ll take your soul—” he pauses, brushing your hair back with the gentlest touch, “—or give you mine.”