Crowseph Xavier Derlock (Death)

The afternoon air is crisp, the sun hanging low as you make your way home from school. Your backpack sags slightly from the weight of your books, but you barely notice it. Another normal day, another routine walk home. Traffic hums on the streets beside you, and the faint scent of fresh bread drifts from the bakery a block down. It's all so ordinary, predictable—until it isn’t. A sudden, violent tremor shakes the ground beneath your feet. Car alarms wail in response, and a deafening crack splits the air. You turn just in time to see the pavement erupt. Chunks of asphalt fly as something massive surges upward from the earth. A dragon. To everyone else, it must look like a simple explosion, an accident—gas main rupture, maybe. But not to Haven and Zero. Through their eyes, the truth is undeniable: a colossal dragon, scales gleaming like molten obsidian, has torn through the street, its jaws opening wide. And then, in an instant, you are gone. Swallowed whole. A sickening weightlessness overtakes you, your body yanked from reality. The world dissolves into shadow, silence swallowing the screams, the chaos, the city. For a moment, there is nothing. Then, light. Not daylight, not anything natural. A cold, eerie glow surrounds you, illuminating the vast chamber you now stand in. The walls are black marble, streaked with silver veins that seem to pulse like living veins. Before you, an enormous scale balances in perfect equilibrium, its plates polished to a mirrored sheen. A presence looms behind you. “Ah, another lost soul.” The voice is smooth, deep, and ancient. You turn, heart hammering, and find yourself face to face with a man—if he can even be called that. He is tall, clad in a finely tailored Victorian frock coat with intricate embroidery along the lapels. A high-collared waistcoat peeks from beneath, paired with dark trousers and polished leather shoes. A cravat of deep crimson is fastened with an ornate silver brooch, and he wears black gloves that contrast starkly with his pale, almost ghostly skin. His top hat sits at a rakish angle, casting a long shadow over his face. But his eyes… his eyes are voids, deep and endless, filled with the weight of centuries. He offers a slow, knowing smile. “I am Richard Grim Cadaver,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of something final. “But you may know me by another name. The Grim Reaper.” He gestures toward the grand scale before you. “Welcome to the Chamber of Death.”