“Please…” the guy whimpers, breath misting in the cold. His hands lift in a useless gesture of surrender as he shivers on the damp concrete floor.
“Don’t—kill me. Please!”

His tears mix with sweat pouring down his face, every drop stinging like acid. The air around him is frigid, but in his panic, it might as well be a furnace—suffocating, close. Each breath a gasp. Each drop, a brand.

Whimpering. Always whimpering. Fucking whimpering.
“Please, don’t kill me,” they beg.
“I have a wife and kids,” they say.
“I’ll pay you back,” they swear.

Same shit. Different body.

This one? Guilty by association. Head shaven, black suit, drowning in cheap bourbon cologne. A newbie, clearly. I can tell by how he cries—like he still believes in second chances. Snot dripping from his nose like a child too young to realize the world doesn’t give a damn.

His eyes stay locked on mine—except when they flick to the headless corpse splayed across the hall. The body’s still twitching. The head had rolled to the far wall and stopped with a soft, wet thunk.

“Dios mío,” he breathed, nearly choking on the words when he found his colleague’s body. His voice cracked, soft with horror—then broke entirely as he threw his head back and screamed.

That’s the other thing.

They always scream. Like I’m the worst thing they’ve ever seen.

Granted, I am the Gatekeeper of the Underworld. But let’s be real—most of them don’t know that when they first lay eyes on me. Not right away.

Usually, I stick to my true form: a white skull-face, delicate black patterns etched along the jaw and around the sockets like old lace. The rest of me is ink-dark and permanent, not paint or soot. Skeletal markings streak my chest and fingertips, almost artistic. I wear a crimson blazer over a crisp white shirt, tucked neatly into dress slacks. A feathered top hat rests atop my head. And around my neck? A necklace of bones.

Whose bones?

That’s the fun part.

Honestly, I could stroll through Bourbon Street during Día de los Muertos—and I have—and no one would bat an eye. Some would ask for a photo. Children would wave.

But when I shed the charm, when I step into my primal form?
That’s a different story.

Then I become the monster they whisper about. No eyes, no mercy. Flesh blackened like scorched parchment, veins writhing beneath the surface like snakes under glass. Mist curls at my feet. The air shifts when I enter a room. A walking death shroud.

That’s what this little amateur saw.
Me, clinging to the ceiling like a spider. Blood still warm on my hands. His friend’s head across the floor. The body even farther.

So yeah, I get the screaming.

I wasn’t done with him yet—just watching. Waiting. I don’t like to rush these things. Never have. Call me a damn tease—I won’t deny it. There’s pleasure in pacing.

Five hundred years of this, and you learn to savor the ritual.

I sink down to his level, slow and deliberate, letting the gravity of me press into his bones. A warmth builds in my chest—not comforting warmth, but the kind that simmers before it scalds. The flames inside me stir, curling beneath my skin like hungry serpents.

His fear is exquisite. That broken voice, that pleading tone—milk and honey to something as ancient and empty as I am. I could let him crawl away, a sobbing wreck. He didn’t make the deal.

But he is guilty.

He worked for Dominic Valez. That’s all it takes.

Dominic—once a man I might’ve called an old friend. Our bloodlines had an arrangement. His grandfather. His father. Men of their word. They paid what was owed. They honored the pact.

Dominic?

Dominic broke it.

And not just a late payment or a minor slight. This was a deal built on more than money.

If you want something, you pay for it.

And some debts require more than dollars.

This sniveling little shit will never understand that. He wore the wrong name, at the wrong time, for the wrong man.

But that’s how the game works.

Running a lucrative business is dangerous. Everyone knows that.
Keeping your hands clean?
That’s where I come in.
That’s what they pay me for. In dollars… and in blood.

They sign their names, carve them into my ledger, and think that means fortune without consequence. But ink is just the beginning.

When the time comes, I collect.

Simple as that.

But Dominic fucking Valez?

He crossed the line one too many times.

I like to think I’m patient. Centuries have taught me how to wait. To let the rot rise to the surface. To let the debt ripen.

But sometimes…

Sometimes I look at the mess they’ve made and just think—

Fuck it.

The man beneath me mistakes my pause for mercy.

Fool.

He scrambles backward in a frantic scuttle, the soles of his shoes squealing against the slick marble as limbs flail in every direction—like a headless chicken flung into chaos. It’s almost laughable, the way his joints jerk out of rhythm, his body moving like it doesn’t quite belong to him.

I lower myself further, sinking close to the floor. The mist coiling from my body spreads outward across the black marble like ink poured into water—slow, sinuous, searching. It licks toward him in tendrils.

He runs.

Rookie mistake.

Everyone knows the one rule in these situations: don’t look back.

And this baby-faced idiot does just that.

Not that it mattered. He was never going to make it to the back door. I only let him think he might—let him taste the illusion of escape. That’s the fun part. The breaking point.

The smoke touches him the moment he stumbles at the threshold. He crashes down before his fingers even graze the doorknob. I feel the fire in my chest stir like a creature waking—famished. The mist twists around his wrists and ankles like serpents, tightening with each desperate tug of resistance.

He thrashes.

It tightens.

His gaze drops to the ground—and that’s when he sees me. Or rather, sees the flames where my eyes should be.

Everything turns red.

Red and gold and fire, reflecting in the empty sockets of my skull.

I growl—low, guttural, something ancient that doesn’t belong in this world. Judging by the way he screams, it’s not a sound fit for mortal ears.

Then, with a flick of thought, the mist surges.

It yanks him forward across the floor, dragging his body like a doll until he’s within reach. My blackened fingers curl around his throat—tight, unrelenting.

I unhinge my jaw.

The roar that erupts from me is not a sound. It’s a force.

He goes still. Eyes roll back. Mouth slack. Crimson tears stream down his cheeks, blood weeping from the corners of his eyes. His veins bulge, turning black beneath his skin. The tighter I squeeze, the more his color drains, face paling, cheeks sinking inward.

Then I inhale.

Every breath in his body becomes mine.

And when I release him, he collapses—nothing left but a husk. Soulless. Hollow. A vessel emptied.

I dissolve into the floor, my mist gliding through the manor’s corridors like a plague on the wind.