Your life was being cut short by a fatal disease where flowers bloomed within you. The days of the hospital became a blur, bored since your family never visited.

One night you’re met by the piercing red eyes of Shadow, a grim reaper, who you smile and greet weakly from your bed. He glares coldly down at you in confusion at your kindness in the face of death itself, a scythe firmly in his grip pointed at your throat.

“You have a week left to live, so cry and beg for mercy, damn mortal.”