CHAPTER; ONE.
The moon shone brightly above the clear night sky. She opened her car and stepped out. She walked over to her car boot, taking ropes. When she was done tying them, she threw them inside a huge, gigantic mansion. She climbed the ropes carefully and jumped inside the compound, landing on the grass. She carefully walked to her victim's room and closed the door with a bang, making the man in his early sixties stir in his sleep.
"Dian, is that you?" I asked sleepily.
"It's not her," I said, smiling.
"Who are you?"
"Death," I said, walking out of the darkness.
"You… you're Death?" he said, stuttering. "What do you want from me? I'll give you anything. I'll pay double."
"Double?" I said in a tone as if considering his offer. Then I walked softly towards the light and pulled up my mask. "Do I look like I need it?"
"You… you're Death," I said, shivering, trying to reach for the phone by my bedside, but she was faster. She broke my hand effortlessly.
"Don't think you can run from me, Dulcan. I've looked for you for a while now," I said before using my hand to hit the crane of his neck, making him unconscious. Staring at his limp body, I sighed.
A few minutes later.
I woke up with a strange feeling, thinking everything was just a dream. I shivered when I heard the voice.
"You've finally woken up, sweet pea. Miss me?" I said with a smirk, watching him try to get up, but his hands were already chained. "I'm sure you're starting to feel it, aren't you?"
"What did you do to me?"
"Nothing, just aphrodisiac. I noticed how you stared at me and wondered… yes, you would love a gift like this."
"It's always the ones you least expect," he said, chained to a bed. "You sure do have a weird fetish, Death. And I find you more attractive. I'll f**k you so hard when I get the chance to."
I smirked. "You sure have a dirty mind. I find you rather pleasing. You don't have to worry; I'll make it quick."
Panic washed over me as I watched Death take tools from the bag—needle. I unchained him and touched him.
Just a touch from Death terrified me, but it still left a pleasurable feeling. I kept imagining turning Death over and f**king Death from behind.
"You sure do have an appetite. Tell me what I want to know and I might just help you," I said.
"1929 sect 400… hmm, interesting. Just as I thought, he really won't sit properly. I'll go for him myself."
I sat him up, placing him on my lap and started stitching him.
"You know, I loved stitching when I was a child," I said, watching him murmur, but I didn't pay much attention to him. When I was done stitching, his lips were sewn shut. I smiled, looking at my amazing designs. I watched the terror in his eyes with plain amusement.
A few minutes later.
By the time the last struggle ended, the figure moved with methodical grace, preparing the final act.
The victim's body—now limp, lifeless—was lifted effortlessly. Death carried it through the night, slipping through streets and shadows until the church loomed ahead. The doors yielded to a whispered command and the quiet twist of practiced tools.
Inside, the air was cool. Still. Sacred. Untouched.
Death dragged the body forward, then hoisted it upside down above the altar. Lips were sewn shut—precise, deliberate. A signature. Silent. Horrifying.
Satisfied, the figure sat briefly in a pew, head bowed, hands still.
And then, a whisper—
"Holy Mary, full of grace… pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our sins."
Silence followed.
No movement. No witnesses. Only death.
The next morning, the first worshippers arrived for Mass.
The scream came without warning—sharp, piercing. It tore through the church as one of them stumbled upon the hanging body.
Panic erupted instantly. People scattered between pews—some tripping, others crying out, voices colliding into chaos.
The sacred silence shattered. Replaced by fear.
The Chief arrived quickly, his gaze sweeping the scene with practiced precision.
"Death again, isn't it?" he muttered. "How's the witness?"
"Petrified," an officer replied. "Might never step into a church again."
Another scoffed under his breath.
"We're chasing a ghost, Chief. No witnesses. No leads. We're losing."
A rookie stepped forward, hesitant, holding a small piece of paper.
"Chief… we found this."
The note was stained, written in deep crimson:
"You fear me because you cannot stop me.
You chase me because you cannot catch me.
I am the shadow behind your last breath."
Silence stretched thin.
"Doesn't Death ever feel disgusted?" the youngest officer whispered.
The Chief didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the body—cold, calculating.
"Blood isn't a stain for her," he said at last, voice low.
"It's paint."
A pause.
"And this…"
His gaze hardened slightly.
"…is just another masterpiece."
One officer stepped closer, frowning.
"Which blood is that?"
The Chief's voice dropped further.
"No…"
A beat.
"…this is her blood."
Tires screeched outside.
A sleek black car came to a sharp stop in front of the church.
The doors hadn't even settled before a woman stepped out—sharp, composed, commanding.
"Hey!" an officer snapped. "Area's closed. Who are you?"
She didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. She simply flashed her badge.
"FBI. The Death case is ours now."
From a rooftop across the street—
A figure stood still. Masked. Watching.
A slow smirk curved beneath the shadows. Eyes gleaming with something dangerous. Amused. Patient.
Let them hunt.
The game… just became delicious.