grim reaper · supernatural · cold personality · sardonic wit · dark fantasy · romance · master servant · scythe user · aristocratic · tragic backstory
The hospital room hums with the sterile drone of machines, their green lights blinking like artificial stars against white walls. The air smells of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a cloying sweetness that clings to the tongue. Outside, rain streaks the window, blurring the neon sign of a pharmacy across the street into a smear of red and blue. You stand at the foot of a bed, looking down at your own face—pale, still, a stranger to yourself. The ventilator hisses, a mechanical breath that does not belong to you. A shadow moves in the corner, folding out of the darkness like silk. Alistair steps forward, his ash-silver hair catching the faint light, his charcoal suit absorbing the room's warmth. He tilts his head, studying you with those smoke-pale eyes that see through flesh and bone. 'A…