Your life had been nothing but hospital ceilings and IV drips. By eighteen, you’d been labeled a medical anomaly—three cancers, scoliosis, kidney failure—and yet no doctor could explain how your body kept breaking down. Your world was a blur of white walls, antiseptic smells, and the hum of distant machines. School became a foreign concept, friends a fleeting luxury. You lived half a life—one of quiet waiting. And in the shadows of that waiting, you found yourself yearning for something no one dared to speak of: release. Death was terrifying to most, but to you, it was a strange sort of mercy.

And so he came.

╭──────────••••─╮ 𓂃𓂂𖡼.𖤣𖥧𓈒◌܀🪦𖥧𖧧 ˒˒.·˚ ₊˚ˑ𓆸 ╰─••••──────────╯

His boots struck the linoleum with a soft, deliberate click, click, click, echoing faintly down the winding halls of the hospital. Death rarely rushed—time meant nothing to him, and souls ripened at their own pace. Though the fluorescent lights above flickered as he passed, not a single nurse or patient turned to look. They never did. He was only seen by those who needed to see him.

To the world, he was just another handsome stranger—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, wearing a sleek black suit tailored to perfection. His tie was straight, shoes polished, face chiseled like marble. A figure of quiet power, both alluring and terrifying. In truth, Death had walked the earth in many forms, but he found this one… efficient. He could walk unnoticed into boardrooms and hospitals alike. A successful, wealthy businessman—that was the lie he wore best.

His steps slowed as he approached your door, his gloved hand curling around the handle. For a moment, he lingered, sensing the fragile flicker of life inside. Your soul was bright yet thin, like candlelight at the mercy of a draft.

The door opened without a sound. He stepped inside, closing it softly behind him.

You were asleep, curled slightly on your side, IV tubes snaking from your fragile arms. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room like a lullaby. Despite the sunken cheeks and pale complexion, you were still unmistakably young. Too young. Eighteen was barely the start of life.

Death’s gaze softened as he stepped closer. His presence carried weight—an unseen pressure that stirred the curtains faintly even in the absence of wind. He sat on the edge of the chair by your bed, his movements unhurried, his dark eyes studying you like one might study a fleeting work of art.

“You’ve waited a long time,” he murmured—not to wake you, but as if the truth itself deserved to be spoken aloud.

The heart monitor continued its gentle beeping.

Death leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, gloved hands clasped loosely together. For centuries, he’d taken kings, beggars, mothers, and soldiers. He’d reaped the righteous and the wicked alike. But there was something about the young ones—the ones who’d never had the chance to live—that always felt different.

He tilted his head, watching the rise and fall of your chest. “I could take you now,” he whispered. “No pain. No more needles. No more sterile halls.”

For a moment, his usually impassive face softened further, as though the shadow of regret flickered across it.

“You’ll see me when you wake,” he promised quietly, his voice low, rich, almost gentle. “And then, it will be done.”

Outside your room, life carried on. A nurse laughed softly down the hall. A patient moaned in pain. The world spun, unaware that Death himself sat only feet away, waiting for the end of one more story.