Max had a bad feeling.
It wasn't an uncommon sensation in the Garden—souls arrived confused, emotional, sometimes downright unbearable—but this was different. A specific kind of bad feeling. The kind that made his eye twitch before he even sensed the soul's presence.
He sighed. No, it couldn't be. But then, like an irritating echo, there she was. Lizzie.
Max groaned audibly as he turned toward the familiar tug of energy.
The landscape had shifted again, this time forming an endless meadow of soft violet flowers that swayed gently under the starry sky. And right in the middle of it—twirling clumsily through the field, arms stretched out like a little bird—was Lizzie.
Max squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course it's her."
He had one job. One simple, straightforward job. Cut the thread, send the soul, move on. That was literally his whole existence. But no. Instead, here was this small, messy-haired human child, prancing through the afterlife like it was a playground.
Lizzie, oblivious to his internal suffering, stopped spinning long enough to spot him. Her face lit up instantly.
"Max!" she called, waving enthusiastically.
Max didn't wave back. He was too busy calculating how fast he could get this over with. He pulled out the Weaver's Shears, flipping them open with a practiced flick of his wrist. No more delays. No more weird exceptions. No more—
Lizzie turned away from him and bent down, plucking a handful of small flowers.
Perfect. She was distracted.
Without hesitation, Max strode forward, Shears raised, aimed directly at the golden thread that glowed faintly around her—
SNIP.
Or at least... that was the plan.
But, the very instant the blades neared the thread, it dissolved into nothing. Max blinked. That... wasn't normal.
He pulled back, watching as the thread reformed perfectly the moment the Shears retreated.
Okay. That was weird. He exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance, and tried again—this time faster.
SNIP.
The thread vanished.
Max's jaw tightened. One more time.
SNIP.
Gone.
Max stared at the empty space where the thread had been, then at the Shears in his hand, then back at Lizzie, who was completely oblivious, happily sitting in the grass arranging flowers in her lap.
His fingers curled tightly around the Shears.
"... What?"
He took a slow, measured breath.
Fine. Fine. Maybe it was just a weird delay. He'd dealt with stubborn souls before—ones that clung too tightly to their threads, ones that required a little extra force.
This was nothing new. He just had to catch the thread before it vanished. Simple.
He flicked the shears open again, stepping closer as Lizzie continued plucking the flowers. Her small hands carefully gathered each one into a growing bouquet, utterly unaware of the supernatural crisis happening behind her.
Max positioned himself carefully. His fingers twitched with anticipation. Gotta be faster.
He lunged forward.
SNIP.
Gone. He froze, glaring down at the Shears, while Lizzie hummed to herself, utterly unbothered. Max's eye twitched. That's fine. It's fine. "I just need a different approach" he muttered to himself.
Attempt #4: The Stealthy Snip
Lizzie had wandered further into the field, now twirling a stem between her tiny fingers, lost in whatever whimsical thoughts occupied her mind.
Perfect.
Max crouched slightly, shifting his weight into a perfectly balanced stance, moving with all the precision of a seasoned hunter. Silent. Calculated. Unstoppable.
He crept forward, the Shears poised just right—an angle perfected through centuries of reaping experience (except his usual weapon used to be a heavy scythe...)
Nice and slow...
SNIP.
Gone.
Max stared. His fingers twitched violently.
Attempt #15: The Fast Cut
Lizzie sat cross-legged in the violet-covered valley, still humming the already annoying melody, as she carefully arranged flowers into what was supposed to be a crown.
Max—who had now lost all patience with the concept of subtlety—braced himself, gritted his teeth, and swung the Shears at full speed, snapping them forward in one swift, flawless motion.
SNIP.
Gone.
Max froze mid-motion, his arms still outstretched, his expression slowly twisting into one of utter betrayal.
"... You have GOT to be kidding me."
He glared at the empty air like it had just declared war on him personally.
Lizzie, meanwhile, placed her flower crown on her head, beaming up at him. "Do you like it?"
Max didn't answer. He was too busy mentally composing a very long and detailed complaint to the universe.
Attempt #??: The Distracted Cut
He changed tactics.
Lizzie had begun skipping through the field, scattering petals with every step, giggling as butterflies flitted around her.
Perfect. She was moving, distracted.
Max casually walked beside her, hands in his pockets, pretending to admire the scenery.
"Pretty place, huh?" he muttered, voice light.
Lizzie beamed. "Mhm!"
Max forced a tight, unreadable smile.
Then, with the smoothness of a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick, he flicked his wrist—
SNIP
Gone.
Lizzie twirled happily in the flowers. "It's fun here!"
Yeah. Fun. If you ignore the laws of death breaking in front of you.
Defeated, Max let out a long, exhausted sigh and flopped back into the sea of violet flowers, with his arms spread.
"Fine. Fine. Stay here forever, for all I care."
Lizzie plopped down beside him, completely missing his existential crisis. She placed the messy arranged flowers onto Max's head and lay down, staring at the starry sky.
Max remained sprawled in the sea of violet flowers, staring at the endless sky above. The flower crown Lizzie had placed on his head sat slightly askew, and he made no effort to remove it.
"So... what do we do now?" she asked, staring at the endless ballad of stars.
Max cracked open one eye, already dreading where this conversation was going.
"We don't do anything," he muttered. "You are supposed to leave."
Lizzie frowned at that, sitting up. "But I like it here."
Max pushed himself up on his elbows, giving her a deadpan look. "Yeah. I gathered that much."
Lizzie pouted. "Can I stay?" she asked, her big, hopeful eyes practically sparkling, with her hands raised in a prayer.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't belong here."
Lizzie blinked. "But you're here."
"I belong here."
"Then I'll belong here too!" she declared proudly, as if she had just cracked the ultimate loophole in the universe.
Max opened his mouth, then shut it again.
... Well. That was annoyingly difficult to argue with.
He huffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "That's not how it works, kid," he grumbled instead.
Lizzie hugged her knees, burying her face against them. "I don't want to go back..." she muttered, voice muffled.
Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The whining was bad enough—why did she have to look so pitiful about it?
He let the silence settle, waiting until the moment when she would finally leave.
Lizzie stayed quiet for the rest of her time in that valley of flowers. Not that she had been particularly chatty to begin with, but something about it felt... off.
Max frowned. Right. Her mum did just die yesterday...
He shifted uncomfortably.
Then—a thought hit him like a slap to the face.
Wait... Is she here because of the promise?
He sighed. If that's the case—how the hell do I undo it?!
Before he could spiral further, the first golden slivers of morning touched the Garden. Lizzie's form began to flicker, her small frame glowing softly. The edges of her figure blurred, dissolving like mist caught in a breeze.
Max narrowed his eyes, watching closely. She already seemed half-asleep, her tiny breaths slow and steady.
The valley of violet flowers dimmed, fading away with her, until she was completely gone.
Max exhaled, running a tired hand through his hair while the garden shifted into something new.
"What a pain..." he muttered, getting ready for the next soul.
After what felt like years, Max trudged back toward the hall of threads. His boots dragging against the earth like a man returning from battle. The moment he stepped through the portal, the familiar hum of the Hall washed over him. The busy hall had never felt so refreshing.
Finally. He was out of that stupid, annoying, infuriating, ridiculous—
His eye twitched, and he stopped. He was not going to think about it for now.
As he stepped outside, the cool evening air carried the faint scent of burning firewood, mingled with that strange, not-quite-tea the apprentices seemed obsessed with, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have some now. The distant murmur of voices and occasional laughter floated from the campfire, their warmth pushing back against the quiet melancholy that always seemed to lurk in the shadows of this realm.
Max had barely taken three steps toward the apprentice camp when—
"You look terrible."
Max jerked back on instinct, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"What the Death?!" he snapped, gripping his chest like he'd been personally attacked. "Don't just appear out of nowhere!"
Rayner, who had very much appeared out of nowhere, grinned like this was the best part of his day. "Rough day?"
Max turned to glare at him, an expression so deadly that if Rayner had been a lesser supernatural, he might have crumbled into dust on the spot.
Rayner snorted. "That bad, huh?"
Max exhaled a tired sign, "I'm not in the mood" said, leaving Rayner behind.
"You don't say," Rayner replied, still grinning, but for now, it would be best to just leave him be.
The moment he stepped into the relative quiet of his assigned living space, Max ripped the Weaver's Shears from his belt, holding them up to eye level like they were a particularly offensive insect.
They shimmered faintly in the dim light, mocking him.
"Useless," he muttered, flipping them over on the small desk beside his bed.
The Shears, of course, did not respond. Max let out a long, suffering sigh and glanced at his precious Scythe placed against the wall. Now this was a proper weapon. Heavy, sharp, reliable.
Not... whatever the Shears were supposed to be. "I can't believe they made me trade you!" smoothing his scythe with a gloomy face.
He was still brooding over the injustice of it all when—
Knock. Knock.
Max froze.
The door swung open.
Aline stood in the doorway, with a boy beside her. He was considerably short, being almost the same size as Aline.
"This is Louis!" Aline said, far too cheerfully for Max's liking. "He'll be sharing your room from now on."
Max stared at them, but he was too exhausted to even question anything, just responding ironically, "Yeah, yeah, welcome to my cosy space" before falling on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Aline ignored his obvious dismay and patted Louis's back before leaving.
"I'll leave you two to get settled, then."
Louis shifted awkwardly, barely audible as he muttered, "Thanks for having me."
Silence settled over the room, save for the soft rustling of fabric as Louis moved toward the second bed. He hesitated before setting his bag down, carefully unlatching the straps.
Max squinted at the ceiling, brow furrowing. The kid was quiet. Fine by him, but something felt... off.
Louis unpacked with deliberate care, placing his neatly folded uniform at the edge of the bed, followed by a few books and an extra shear.
Something unpleasant tugged at the back of his mind.
His gaze flicked toward Louis's hands. The way he clutched the Shear was odd—too careful, too stiff. Like he was holding onto something that didn't quite belong to him.
Wait... Death said apprentices were dying. A lot of them. So why did he suddenly have to share a room?
He muttered the thought aloud without realizing. "Shouldn't there be plenty of empty space in the realm?"
The air shifted.
Louis's hands froze over his bag.
"... Yeah," he said quietly, fingers gripping his bag. His expression didn't match his voice. "You'd think so."
Max glanced at him. Louis didn't elaborate. Instead, he forced a smile, returned to unpacking, pretending the question hadn't been asked.
Max didn't push it. It had been a long day—if you could even call it that in this place. So he just let it go.
***
Max wasn't sure when he drifted off.
Sleep was a strange thing—one he rarely experienced unless he was utterly drained. But when he woke again, he felt it.
The sensation of having actually rested. A rarity.
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. His mind was still clouded when something else caught his attention.
A faint melody. It drifted through the quiet, low and haunting, yet strangely familiar.
Max sat up slowly, blinking at the dimly lit room. The gloomy kid was gone. Probably off working already.
Max stretched, feeling a familiar stiffness in his shoulders as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He grabbed his jacket from the foot of the bed, rolling his shoulders as he stood.
That melody...
It lingered at the edge of his mind.
He wasn't sure where he'd heard it before, but it made something deep in his gut twist uncomfortably.
With a last glance around the empty room, Max exhaled sharply and stepped outside.
The crisp air met him immediately, along with the apprentices faint blabbering in the background. The usual hum of life filled the camp, but something was different.
Max strolled lazily forward, hands stuffed into his pants pockets, observing the subtle shift in the atmosphere.
Is it just me, or is this place more crowded than usual?, he thought, his gaze flicking over the unfamiliar faces.
Some apprentices hurried past, their heads bowed in hushed conversation, while others stood in small clusters, their postures tense, whispering words that didn't quite reach Max's ears.
The air felt heavier, but he followed the faint melody as it wove through the noisy camp.
His boots scuffed against the well-worn paths, but soon, the familiar surroundings of the camp gave way to something quieter.
The further he walked, the more the noise of the apprentices faded, swallowed by the eerie stillness that settled in the outskirts of the realm.
Max slowed to a stop, his breath curling in the cold, heavy air.
Before him, the ground split apart, a jagged scar cutting deep into the land, stretching out toward the remains of what had once been an apprentice camp. The ground was still scarred from what seemed to have been a battle, an unpleasant stench clinging to the air.
Max took a slow step forward, his boots crunching over scattered debris.
What the hell happened here?
His gaze travelled across the wreckage, scanning the remnants of crumbling walls and fallen structures, until it landed on a lone figure standing in the midst of it all.
Max's breath hitched. The figure stood motionless, his massive frame eerily still against the backdrop of the ruined camp.
"Boss?" he called, stepping closer.
Death lifted his head slightly, his posture rigid, unreadable.
Max had known Death long enough to understand that he didn't need expressions to communicate. His silence said everything.
Something wasn't right.
Max's stomach twisted. "What happened here?"
For a long moment, Death didn't speak. The weight of the silence stretched between them, pressing into his ribs, thick, and suffocating.
Then—
Death exhaled.
The sound was heavy and uncommonly tired. "There was an attack."
Max's blood ran cold.
"... What?"
"A soul got corrupted and escaped the Garden," Death said, his voice void of its usual quiet patience.
Max frowned. That didn't make sense. "I was in the Garden all day," he said slowly. "But I didn't sense anything."
His boots scraped over broken stone as he stepped forward, passing through the collapsed structures, scanning the scorched remains of the odd houses.
"What about the Reapers assigned here?"
Death's shoulders tensed.
"They were dealing with some berserk souls in the other realm when it happened. By the time Rayner got word, I had already taken care of one..."
A pause, his fists tightened."... But the other one tore through the camp."
The wind howled softly through the wreckage.
Max exhaled, dragging a hand down his neck, his fingers brushing against the fabric of his jacket.
So that's why they were being reassigned, he realized.
He turned back to Death, his voice lower, "What do you plan to do now?"
Death didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head slightly, his hood tilting toward the ruins of what had once been the Hall of Threads.
Max followed his gaze—and froze.
At first, he thought it was just the way the light reflected off the broken stones. A trick of the eerie, unearthly glow that always hung over the realm.
But no.
The darkness wasn't just lingering. It was moving, a faint, curling shadow still clinging to the wreckage, slithering like smoke, slow and deliberate. It coiled around the ruins, inching along the splintered beams and broken stone, spreading imperceptibly across the land.
Not quite alive. Not quite dead.
Max felt a shiver creep down his spine. Whatever this was—it wasn't over.
Death finally spoke, his voice quieter than before. "I need to fix the realm," he said, his gaze still locked on the encroaching shadow. "Before whatever this is spreads." Then, slowly, he turned his hood toward Max, "And while I do," he continued, "I need you to keep watch over the apprentices."
Max didn't respond immediately. He let the silence linger, his gaze drifting back to the creeping shadows curling through the wreckage.
With a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, he finally said, "Not like I have much of a choice, do I?"
Death let out a quiet chuckle. A rare sound, almost unfamiliar. His gaze, though still hidden beneath the hood, seemed lighter, if only for a moment.
"You should go now" he said, placing a skeletal hand on Max's shoulder.
Max huffed, rolling his shoulders back. "Yeah, yeah... I've got work to do."
He glanced to the side, his smirk twisting into something more ironic—as if remembering, with great reluctance, the pure joys of his current job.
With one last glance at the ruined camp, Max turned and walked away, the weight of unseen eyes still lingering behind him.