I roll my shoulders, folding my arms across my chest. “I have something to say.”
I let the silence stretch, just enough for them to feel it, before finally breaking it.
“I have a proposal,” I say, my voice steady despite the way something inside me twists at the words. “I want to get my revenge.”
That gets their attention. Figures.
Nathaniel straightens slightly. Cassian stops sharpening his knife. Talon tilts his head.
“Your revenge?” Cassian echoes, his expression shifting in real-time like a buffering video. It tells me that wisps of nothing shouldn’t want revenge. And yet, right there, I see it—the moment doubt creeps in. His brows furrow, and there’s something uncertain in his gaze, like maybe, just maybe, I’m not a wisp of nothing after all.
It fuels something inside me. Probably my pettiness. Maybe my rage. Could be some other novelty of an emotion that I suddenly feel.
I take a deep breath and step closer to them.
“You clearly know a lot about Grim Reapers and, well, souls,” I start. “But let me tell you how it really is anyway. Maybe there's something you don't know.”
“Alright.” Nathaniel nods.
I clear my throat.
“Just like you mentioned earlier,” I point my hand to Nathaniel, “the system of the afterlife relies heavily on Karma. It's a system of balance—of debts paid and justice served, even if that justice takes the scenic route. At least, that’s how it works in the death department.”
“Death department?” Talon echoes, brow raised.
“You know,” I say. “Where I work. Grim Reaper? Collector of souls? Facilitator of the whole ‘you’re dead, get in line’ process? My job is just to bring souls to the afterlife. Once they’re there, some other cosmic bureaucratic schmucks decide what happens next. And if a soul reincarnates immediately, they get shuffled over to the life department.”
I watch them nod their heads like this is brand-new information, and suddenly, I realize: they had no idea how any of this worked.
Wow. Okay.
“Anyway,” I continue, ignoring all this, “there are a lot of ways to die, and not all of them get treated the same. That’s where Karma comes in. A natural death? That’s neutral Karma—fate keeping the books balanced. Suicide? Leaves a mark. A debt that rolls over to the next life. And murder?” I pause. “Murder leaves awound.”
“The killer carries a stain—negative Karma that won’t wash out, no matter how hard they scrub. The victim, if they weren’t ready to check out yet, gets a choice. Stay, or go. Most go. They let Karma handle it, trusting that justice will eventually show up, even if it’s late. But some don’t. Some stay.” I swallow hard. “I stayed.”
Nathaniel leans back, processing, then nods.
“So, in other words,” he says, “you only get to be a Grim Reaper if you’ve been murdered.”
“Correct,” I say. “It’s an exclusive club. Very VIP. The initiation process? Absolutely killer.”
I nearly snort at my own joke. If I’m being completely honest, whatever these guys did to my bones when they carved them up, they also made me funnier.
Every cloud's got a silver lining, huh?
These guys don’t seem to appreciate it, though. Nathaniel’s fingers drum against the table once, twice, then stop. Talon shifts in his seat, but his smirk? Gone. Cassian? He just watches me, jaw tight, knife resting in his grip like he forgot he was holding it.
“What are you waiting for, exactly?” It's Cassian who speaks first.
I hesitate. It’s one of those things I’d be scared to tell anyone who wasn’t another Grim Reaper. Nobody understands. But given who they are and what they do… Maybe they will.
“Once my killer comes to the afterlife,” I say finally, “I get to exact a punishment on him. Whatever it takes to make the scales feel even again.”Talon exhales slowly. Nathaniel shifts his weight. Cassian’s grip tightens on the knife. Then, Talon gestures vaguely, rolling his wrist in the air.
“So let me get this straight.” He levels me with a look. “You hang around, shuttling dead bastards to the afterlife, just… waiting for your dear old murderer to finally croak so you can swoop in and hit him with the wrath of God?”
I press my lips into a thin line. “More or less.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Aren’t we just two peas in a fucked-up little murder pod?”
