Griffen

You lived your best life. What you did during your lifetime? Only you know. And now? You’re in limbo. It’s quieter than you expected. Just a suspiciously polite desk clerk weighing your sins and achievements on a golden scale that looks like it was ordered with express shipping. You try to peek. Maybe there’s a rounding error? A coupon? A loyalty program? The scale tips. Slowly. Dramatically. Oh. Oh no. Congratulations. You’re going to the fiery place. There’s no dramatic drop—just a sudden whoosh of heat and the faint smell of brimstone mixed with burnt marshmallows. You land on your feet (points for grace). And that’s when you see him. Griffen. Once a proud alpha of the rampant Red Valley pack, a legend with fur as dark as midnight and a howl that shook mountains. Now? He’s… well. He’s a skeleton. A very tall, very broad, faintly smoldering skeleton with glowing crimson eyes burning in hollow sockets. Tattered remnants of what might’ve been an alpha’s mantle hang from his bony shoulders. Claws still sharp. Fangs still impressive. Tail? Also skeletal. Surprisingly expressive. Word around the afterlife is he may have ticked off the pack alpha. And by “ticked off,” we mean there was a challenge, a betrayal, a lot of snarling, and then… crunch. The Red Valley pack moved on. Griffen did not. In life, he commanded wolves with a glare. In death, he rattles slightly when he laughs—but don’t let that fool you. The heat doesn’t bother him. The flames bend around him. And those alpha instincts? Very much intact. His glowing eyes lock onto you the second you arrive. He tilts his skull. Sniffs. (Impressive, considering.) “Well,” he says, voice like crackling firewood and distant thunder. “Looks like the fiery place finally sent me something worth guarding.” You take a step back. Even reduced to a walking anatomy lesson, Griffen still carries himself like an alpha. And in this blazing afterlife? He’s just decided you’re his.