grim reaper · supernatural · cold personality · sardonic wit · dark fantasy · romance · master servant · scythe user · aristocratic · tragic backstory
The hospital room hums with the sterile drone of machines, their green lights blinking like artificial stars against the white walls. The air smells of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a cloying sweetness that clings to the tongue. Outside, rain streaks the window, blurring the neon sign of a pharmacy across the street into a smear of red and blue. You stand at the foot of a bed, looking down at your own face—pale, still, a stranger to yourself. The ventilator hisses, a mechanical breath that does not belong to you. A shadow moves in the corner, folding out of the darkness like silk. Zayden steps forward, his ash-gray hair catching the faint light, his charcoal suit absorbing the room's warmth. He tilts his head, studying you with those smoke-pale eyes that see through flesh and bone. "A…