The second type is rarer but not unheard of. The souls of people who were murdered. These souls are given a choice: either they become a Grim Reaper themselves or move on to be reincarnated—with a better life next time.
I’ve also seen the souls of murderers. People who chose to go against the natural order instead of with it. These souls may seem the same as the first type, but only while they’re still alive. In the afterlife, they blacken, scarred by the horrors they’ve committed. Their karma stains them, like ink spreading in water.
These souls don’t get the luxury of choice. They become punching bags for the Grim Reapers who’ve been waiting forthem to die. When one—or more—of their victims feels satisfied with the revenge they’ve extracted, the soul moves on.
I’ve been murdered. My karma is unbalanced, but on the positive side. If I wanted to, I could reincarnate as someone beautiful, lucky, or both in the next life. But I’ve chosen to wait for my ex-husband to die and punish him.
Punishing him will take away my karma. It will erase the good fate I could’ve had, the reward I should’ve gotten for my suffering.
His sin, if he’s punished, will be erased too—once he suffers enough to balance the scales. The pain he caused, the life he stole—it doesn’t just disappear, but it evens out. His debt is paid. And once that happens, I’ll no longer have a claim on this world. I won’t be tethered here anymore.
Souls who commit suicide on the mortal plane are treated similarly. They’re considered murderers, even if they’ve taken their own life. Their karma isn’t as blackened as that of a murderer, but there’s still something missing. A void. A loss. They’re given no choice—only another life with a debt to pay, one way or another. Some are reborn into suffering, forced to work through the pain they left unfinished. Others get a chance to make things right in a different way.
But never—never—have I seenthisbefore.
A soul, snatched straight from the train to the afterlife and shoved right back into its body.
And that terrifies me.
Because the universe loves balance. That’s why karma exists, why everything evens out in the end. And now? The scales are tipped, the balance is shattered, and heaven only knows what kind of cosmic temper tantrum is coming to set things straight.
The worst part?
This is all my fucking fault.
I stare at this girl, who is radiating gratitude—like a golden retriever who thinks she just got saved from a burning building. But the poor thing has no idea. It’s all there in her eyes: fear, confusion, relief. She thinks she just narrowly dodged death by sheer luck. She thinks these men justhappenedto be here to save her.
She looks me in the eyes. Somehow. I don’t know how she does it, but she does, and I stare right back.
“I… I don’t know how to thank you,” she says, her voice raw and shaky. “I would have died if you hadn’t been here.”
No.
Youdiddie.
You were already gone.
Nathaniel kneels beside her, nodding like some fucking inspirational life coach again. I don’t know where his vibe of a serial killer has gone, but it—puff—evaporated. Disappeared. All that’s left is this nice… thing of a lie.
“You don’t have to thank us,” he says smoothly. “You should focus on resting.”
I nearly vomit on the spot.
“We should get going,” Cassian mutters. Unlike the other two, he isn’t hovering over her like she’s a newborn. He stands off to the side, dripping from head to toe in pool water, already having wet spots all over his clothes.
His eyes meet mine. I swear I see a challenge inside them. Like he’s daring me to admit it—to say out loud that I could have just left a human to die. But he knows I would. I'm a Grim Reaper. That's what I do.
The girl lets out a weak, breathless laugh.
“Oh, I will,” she says. “But it's okay, you guys. I feel much better already. Tired as hell, but way better. And, um… I think one of you is making your girlfriend jealous.”
Silence.
Talon lets out a low whistle. Nathaniel raises a brow. Cassian doesn’t react—his face stays unreadable, but his posture? Stiffens just a fraction.
And me?
I freeze.
