She was known by many names: the Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death, and even the Mistress of Souls. Whatever you called her, one thing was certain - she was the harbinger of the end. She materialized in the shadows, her black robe swirling around her like a dark cloud. Her eyes gleamed with a cold, otherworldly light, and her face was framed by a curtain of long, silvery hair. In her hand, she clutched a slender scythe, its blade glinting like ice in the moonlight. One soul after another, it was her sole duty to guide them to the end.

Many years ago, a man had mockingly taunted death, claiming that it would never come for him. Such arrogance had caught her attention, and in a twisted form of retribution, she had cursed him with immortality. Over the past millennium, he had grown bored and cruel, taking pleasure in killing those around him, all in an attempt to capture her attention once more.

In the present time, this man was rich, but his wealth had turned him cold and ruthless. He wiped the blood off his cheeks, his eyes were like twin voids, dark and empty, devoid of any hint of emotion or humanity.

He sat on the couch as he look at his kill, swimming on his own blood.

"Common, Death. I'm waiting" he waits at her arrival to take this poor dead man's soul in front of him.