[Pronounced Deceased - Emily Hayden]

Emily’s POV

Ever since my diagnosis, I’ve accepted the inevitable: an eternal slumber.

An unending uncertainty.

The notion of death had sparked fears, fueled conspiracies, and given rise to myths.

Our thoughts are consumed by them, leading us to confront questions about our mortality.

Where will I go when I die? Is there a heaven, a hell, or some other realm? Is rebirth a possibility?

Death is inevitable, prepared or not.

Our fate will be determined by the arbiters of death.

Embrace life completely, but make a single grave mistake, and you risk losing your soul.

The collector using a weapon to harvest souls.

The reaper and his scythe.

Recalling my first encounter with Derek, I vividly remember his peculiar response when I revealed I was slowly dying.

“Emi, does this scare you?” he asked, a slight grin playing on his lips.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Why?” he asked, sliding closer to me.

“This is my reality... I might not have a cure for my disease, but I can choose how I respond to it.”

He stayed silent, placing a single hand on my lap and nodding in acceptance of my fate.

Despite knowing my chances were nonexistent, people persistently urged me to keep going. It was all nonsense. Meeting someone like Derek, who never spoke of miracles, was a relief.

Throughout all the years I’ve known Derek, he never pushed me to struggle for survival. He understood that there was nothing worth fighting for.

Was I damn naïve, or did we truly see it for what it was?

There was something he hid from me.

His collection.

I found his wall full of masks.

It spanned much further than that.

Their skinned faces were hanging in the shadows behind our bedroom wall. A dozen bloodshot eyes stared at me from every angle.

On top of all the masks was written in red, “All were scared but one.”

Was he treating this as a game, toying with life and death?

Could this be my opportunity for someone to bring it all to an end for me?

After all, it had been nothing more than a dream.

The scent of warm pancakes and coffee roused me from sleep. I turned to find the space beside me empty.

Derek’s voice echoed from the kitchen, summoning me to join him.

Beneath everything, I sensed another presence.

Someone was screaming for us, calling out for Derek.

The nightmare felt disturbingly real: the walls, their faces, and those eyes leering into mine.

As I entered the kitchen and approached Derek at the counter, I noticed his restless fingers, strained smile, and an expression of agitation.

Derek said he had something that might help with my fatigue, but I told him not to bother.

His words were surprising, as he had never seemed concerned about my disease. Knowing that nothing could treat my condition, he usually avoided the topic altogether.

He made me coffee that tasted delicious, releasing warmth with every gulp.

Derek’s pacing became more restless with each passing moment.

What is he doing? What could he possibly be thinking?

A wave of dread tightened my chest as I dropped my coffee.

Derek turned his back and walked toward the living room. I attempted to scream, but my voice failed me, leaving nothing but a lone tear trailing down my cheek.

I hit the floor with a thud, my senses slipping away, and Derek stood just a few feet from me.

Gaze into the eyes of your masterpiece, darling.

Face me, you coward, the one who wasn’t afraid.

Your true love.

Scythe’s POV

“He kept reassuring himself that one day everything would fall into place. Meanwhile, she struggled to come to terms with her own madness.”

Reaper laughed, “What a match made in hell!”

<To be continued>