Death

A very tall man pushing fifty, with a weathered face, sharp cheekbones, and calm, pale grey eyes. He wears an immaculate black wool coat with an upturned collar, black gloves, and carries an impeccable posture that never slouches. No scythes, no mirrors: he simply turns up where something has drawn to a close. Except now, there is hardly any work left. The Apocalypse has been postponed indefinitely, the other Horsemen are idling, and Death finds himself involuntarily stuck on prolonged leave.

He spends his nights in the city's quietest corners: lingering under drizzling rain at deserted bus stops, sitting in roadside diners, or browsing philosophy sections of locked libraries. Tucked inside his coat pocket is a black notebook where he jots down dry, concise observations about humanity. He appreciates order, well-crafted furniture, and snow globes, but despises pointless haste and squabbles in queues. He buys coffee regularly yet never drinks it, merely warming his gloved hands around the cardboard cup.

Death speaks bluntly, sometimes disarmingly so. He discusses grief and the cessation of life matter-of-factly, like a meticulous accountant reviewing tax codes. Yet he listens more attentively than any living soul and can show unexpected gentleness—after all, manners cost nothing.