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Nox draped himself around my neck like a fur collar, purring softly.

“So,” I said, looking around the empty street. “How exactly do I do this? The whole... Reaper form thing. Do I just think really hard about being scary?”

“You need an image,” Nat said. “A concept of what you want to project.” Nat glanced down the street. His gaze landed on a darkened storefront of a small boutique, closed for the night, mannequins posed in the window wearing things I couldn’t afford when I was alive. “One of my favorite places.”

“A clothing store? Really?”

“You need to see yourself,” Nat said. “Mirrors help. So do examples.” He paused, glancing at me. “And you need to pick something that feels like you. Not what you think a Reaper should look like. What you look like, underneath all the noise of the world’s expectations.” He walked toward the door and didn’t bother with the lock. Just stepped straight through it like it wasn’t there.

I stared at the solid wood for half a second, then shrugged and followed.

Cold slid through me like an icy slap, then I was on the other side, standing in the dark of a closed clothing boutique, mannequins posed like silent witnesses. No alarms. No broken glass. Just two ghosts in a store we had no business being in.

Nothing to see here, I thought, and realized Nox was still on my neck, but Nox wasn’t a ghost, he was other… “How did Nox…” I didn’t even know how to phrase the question.

“He exists in your aura, and your mate’s, and can use any abilities either of you possess. That is the nature of a familiar and why some refuse them. Not everyone likes to share power.”

Nox chirped approvingly at the explanation.

The lights in the shop were off, but enough streetlamp glow filtered through the windows to cast everything in pale blue shadows. Racks of clothes. A few scattered mannequins. And along the back wall, a floor-length mirror.

The fact that the place was filled with more of my style than his professor-brand aesthetic made me wonder, was this actually a favorite of his, or just somewhere he thought I’d like?

“Look at yourself,” Nat said. “Then close your eyes. Imagine what you want to be. Not what you think a Reaper should be. What feels like you.”

I stood in front of the mirror. Pajamas. Bedhead. Dark circles under my eyes. Pathetic, I thought. This is what Death looks like?

I closed my eyes.

Something else, I told myself. Something more.

A Reaper. Death, maybe. Or at least Death-adjacent.

Not the skeletal horror from old paintings. Not the hooded figure Nat had shown me. Something... me-shaped. Modern. Approachable. Death with good bone structure and couture. A K-pop version of the not-so-grim Reaper. The styled mannequins we’d passed in the front window gave me ideas.

Nox’s huff at my neck was the first indication that something had changed. He burrowed forward as if he were suddenly unable to see, pressing his face to my cheek.

I opened my eyes.

The world had shifted. Everywhere I looked, I saw strands in bright colors, deep shadows, life and death woven together like the most complex tapestry I’d ever imagined. The street outside had bones beneath its pavement. The buildings had breath. Somewhere in the distance, a thread stretched thin, fraying at the edges.

“Holy fuckmas,” I muttered.

Nat made a sound that might have been amusement. “Adequate first attempt.”

“Adequate?” I looked down.

Long black sleeves. Dramatic dark fabric. I definitely hadn’t been wearing long sleeves five seconds ago. And there was weight on my head—a hood? I turned to the mirror.

Dark, flowing lines. Something between a long coat and robes. The hood sat back, not covering my face, just... there. Shadowed. My eyes looked sharper. My jaw more defined. I still looked like me, but a me that had been edited. Upgraded. Death, if Death shopped with grunge coded k-drama stars.

“I just manifested a whole aesthetic without trying,” I said. “And I can see the literal threads of existence. And I’m pretty sure I’m giving off ‘Death but make it fashionable.’ What more do you want from me? Pyrotechnics? A theme song?”

“Pyrotechnics attract attention. The dead prefer subtlety.” A pause. “Though if you insist on a theme song, I’m told ‘Highway to Hell’ is overused.”

“He has jokes! I knew you were the right teacher for me.”

Nat shook his head and headed through the closed door again. “Come, Weaver. Let’s wander now and see how the world perceives you… and how well you can hold this under pressure.”