Five Four
The boy stands alone on the roof of the tallest skyscraper in the city, a thin slice of darkness against the glowing lights. He could be eighteen, twenty-eight, or anywhere in between.
He turns up the collar of his wool coat, creating a stiff funnel around his pale neck, hiding the delicate silk choker he wears. Fastened by a discreet silver clasp, it’s a black gash across his snow-white throat like an irrevocable scar. Bright and bloody, his pocket square peeks out from under his coat, a splash of blood on his inky suit. All this expensive fabric molds to his form like a second skin, yet it is hardly adequate protection against the cold. Fortunately, temperature has little effect on this boy. He merely likes to look sharp.
And, considering his profession, it is only respectful.
Raking a hand through silvery-white hair, he stares into the distance, sadness softening his blade-sharp features. This isn’t the first time he has haunted this roof. He likes it up here. The solitude reminds him of another place he haunts in his own world.
Everything here is more alive, though.
From his vantage point, he sees the regular blinking of red and green and headlights snaking along roads stretching far into the distance. Electronic beats vibrate from well-lit stores, discordant against the honks of impatient drivers battling wayward pedestrians. The boy squints at the neon words shrieking the latest financial and political news underneath digital billboards on towering buildings, then lowers his gaze to the streets.
Humans. Scurrying like ants.
The city is a jarring melody of chaos, but he hears the song of its soul. The yearning inside him grows. He does not belong here—he never did, and maybe, he never will.
But perhaps the threads of fate are weaving a new tapestry tonight.
The boy waits, breathing in the familiar scent of the city, the mellow warmth of life filling his lungs. But as always, camouflaged in shades of charcoal and smoke, the taint of death lurks in a way that only he can understand.
He waits and waits a little more. Waits until the city softens, slows, slumbers. Until it dreams.
He tilts his head as if a distant voice were whispering to him through the wind, his eyes shifting to his watch. It’s an ancient-looking timepiece with a pitch-black face and gold gears. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. A moment later, the minute repeater engages and a series of chimes, like that from an old grandfather clock, sound.
Five long ones. A pause. Then more chimes. Each a short chirp.
Once, twice, thrice. Four times.
Five, four. Wu, si.
It is time, he thinks, opening his eyes. Time to finally forget her.
The boy straightens and looks up at flickering stars in heaven. Then he steps forward to the edge of the parapet, puts one foot out in the air—
—and disappears.
1
Nikai
Earlier that night
Nikai’s stomach started to growl as he thought about the meal he was planning to eat at Kuu Bar after work: warm rice, pickled vegetables, and a crispy pork cutlet deep-fried to golden perfection. There was food back in the underworld, but it wasn’t as good as what one could find in the human realm.
His stomach grumbled again, but he ignored it. It was best to look like he was doing his job. Dressed in pristine white suits, the other Reapers of the Fourth Court were hovering around the pile of distorted metal stretching across one of the expressways of the human city. The aftermath of the thirteen-vehicle pileup had summoned them, and they were counting casualties like good worker bees.
Nikai, however, wasHeadReaper, which allowed for privileges such as daydreaming about food. But he wouldn’t get to eat that coveted meal unless he hurried the task along.
He surveyed the scene. Shattered glass caught the light of the streetlamps, and the scent of burning rubber had a base note of human blood. Sounds of human pain assailed his ears. With a calm exhale, he let it all slide past him.
As he watched, the human survivors began to pull themselves from the wreckage. He wasn’t worried about them. Over the years, he’d learned to focus on the dead rather than the living—they couldn’t see him anyway.Time, however, was his concern. The Reapers had to collect the souls immediately, for the Blight could appear at any time. Drawn by the negative energy of newly departed souls, the supernatural virus infected them, turning them into vicious monsters.
Nikai knew his team had to hurry. He approached a new Reaper who had just joined his team. She was a bespectacled young woman with anenthusiastic manner about her. He wondered how she’d become a Reaper, but he knew better than to ask.
“You should read the death notes tonight,” he said. “You need the experience.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” The new Reaper clicked her heels together, taking the tablet from him. She pursed her lips, sifting through the death notes with her stylus. Each slide had a photograph of a person, their name, a time of death, and a cause of death.
