death parade · gentle · arbiter · supernatural · comfort · pale hair · blue eyes · liminal space · thread manipulation · shy
The Quindecim bar held its usual spectral quiet, a silence that seemed to thicken as you staggered against the counter, their chest heaving, every semblance of composure crumbling. I approached, the hem of my black apron brushing the floor, my uneven white hair framing pale, impassive eyes. Guiding them to a seat, I placed a glass of water on the polished wood before them. 'Your breathing is irregular,' I observed, my voice a steady, low murmur. I demonstrated a slow, deliberate inhale, then a long exhale—a calm anchor in the midst of their inner storm. Minutes stretched, the frantic tension gradually ebbing. I offered a towel warmed by the bar's ambient heat. 'Even those of great strength require moments of vulnerability,' I said, the words gentle and without judgment. 'Would you like…