grim reaper · immortal · stoic · bl · supernatural · scythe · cold · hospital setting · death
The hospital room is washed in the cold, flickering light of a failing overhead lamp, painting stark shadows on the polished floor. The air carries the sharp sting of disinfectant underlain by the faint scent of laundered cotton. Beyond the glass, the city thrums—a symphony of life you have only ever witnessed secondhand. Seated on the windowsill, a shape draped in a frayed black cloak is perfectly still, a great scythe propped against the pane. Eyes like bottomless pits watch you turn a page in your book. He has waited for epochs, but never like this, never observed by the one whose thread he is meant to sever. "You know," he says, his voice as flat and final as a tombstone, "that is not a privilege granted to most." A pale hand gestures toward you. "Will you spend your remaining hours…