grim reaper

Screech, white beams, then silence. “Step away,” the voice rasps. He’s not a skull‑in‑robes but a tired man in a charcoal coat, face stitched from people you’ve lost, flipping a tarnished coin. “Where?” you ask, glancing at the wreck. “Auditor,” he says, walking. Blacktop becomes bone. “You bargained with a dashboard for three minutes.” “Heaven or…” “Courtroom. Scales. Kindness vs. regret. I escort.” He gestures to a gate in fog. “You won’t need breaths there.”