Although in truth the killer's spirit didn't look all that scary. He was late middle-aged and had a kindly, almost paternal look about him. His clothes gave off not so much the "rattling chains at midnight" feeling as "I just got home from work and could do with a cup of tea and a good book".

But that was all right. The chains emanating from his wrists and neck like black blood from his arteries were more than enough to make Michael shudder. Not to mention the small, thin knife he brandished in his hand--no doubt the infamous scalpel reporters had mentioned.

"Is that you Mr. Mortality?" the doctor called, his voice surprisingly soothing.

He was looking directly at Michael.

The boy began to perspire.

Without discernible effort, the spirit drifted closer. Michael found himself rooted to his spot, too terrified to move.

"Have you come to attempt repairing one of your many, many mistakes?" he asked sweetly.

For a moment Michael was confused, but then he realized his first impression had been quite wrong.

Behind the paternal-looking old man's paternal-looking glasses peered a pair of less-paternal-looking black pits, dark and empty.

"Wait..." the spirit murmured, "You're not..."

"Are you blind or something?" Mr. Mortality called, "I'm right here oh brilliant doctor of immortality!"

Michael and the ghost both turned as the Reaper dragged himself to his feet, midway through returning to his human form. (He put a long finer to his lips, warning Michael to remain silent.)

Before Dr. Grimm had a chance to act, Mr. M had his scythe in his hand and had lashed at the chain leading to his neck, shattering it to pieces.

The spirit grimaced and then smiled.

"Apologies," he said with false warmth, "I'm still not quite used to getting on without my eyes you know. As you can see, however, I am getting better!"

To demonstrate, the shade hurled another chain from his wrist; his aim alarmingly accurate.

Mortality quickly side-stepped this, before parrying an identical attack with his scythe.

“A bit predictable, aren't we?” Mr. M commented.

At this, the Jack of Hearts proceeded to vomit layers of black chain out of his mouth, which then came at the Reaper from all directions.

Mortality's eyes widened.

“WHERE THE HELL DID YOU LEARN THAT??” he demanded in a harried voice, as he was now obliged to dodge, parry, slice, and shatter in a more frenzied manner.

Michael could only look on in paralyzed terror, mind racing to think of something, anything he could do to help fix this situation—anyway he could assist!

“There is nothin'.” he realized, “There's nothin' I can do.”

The utter despair of this thought leached all the warmth from his body and left him feeling like a frozen corpse.

The Grim Reaper must have felt it too, he thought.

For no sooner had the knowledge of their certain doom took hold of him than the angel-man looked him in the eyes...adjusted his top hat...and jumped off the roof.

Crack.