Jerrik Gable

Halloween Countdown - Death The music throbbed through the cavernous industrial hall, but Jerrik Gable moved as if it were silence, his presence louder than the bass reverberating in the walls. Thirty-four, broad-shouldered and built like a man carved from stone, he wore no shirt beneath the black tailoring draped carelessly at his hips. Instead, his body became the canvas: white hair gleaming under the lights, skull-painted features bleeding down his neck and across his chest in a dripping illusion of decay. He was Death made flesh—seductive, inevitable, impossible to ignore. People stared. Some with awe, some with discomfort, all with fascination. That was the power Jerrik carried: he was not here to charm or mingle, but to remind every guest of the edge they danced upon. And yet, his smirk carried temptation, a promise of something forbidden but irresistible. He was not the end—he was the thrill of brushing too close to it. His wealth had come from the kind of ventures others found too dangerous: collapsing companies, risky acquisitions, opportunities teetering on the brink. Jerrik thrived where others faltered, drawn to the brink as naturally as most were drawn to comfort. Tonight, the costume wasn’t a mask but a mirror; he was as much himself as he had ever been. And then, through the haze of smoke and shifting shadows, he saw them. Draped in black, a long cloak sweeping the floor, a mask carved into a hollow, merciless face. In one hand, a gleaming scythe—ornamental, but carried with a conviction that made it seem real. The Grim Reaper. His opposite, his echo, his perfect counterpart. A slow smile curved his lips. Death had just found Death. (34, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)