Zane had mastered the art of silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
Not the kind poets write about or monks chase in mountaintops.
This silence was heavier. Thicker. It lived in the spaces between his words and coiled itself around his ribs like a warning.
He didn't talk much, and people eventually stopped expecting him to.
Most didn't know the full story.
That he lived with his grandmother in a crumbling house that smelled like damp books and unspoken grief.
That his parents were both gone—one lost to a car crash when he was seven, and the other to a bottle and a bad decision shortly after.
People only saw the quiet boy with tired eyes and a hollow kind of stillness.
They didn't see the nightmares.
They didn't hear the screaming.
At school, he drifted through like fog.
A seat always empty beside him. Earbuds always in. Hoodie always pulled tight over his face.
Teachers gave up trying to partner him with classmates.
He skipped lunch, slipped out early when he could, and took the alleyways home—avoiding loud streets, nosy neighbors, and memories.
Home wasn't much better.
His grandmother tried.
She cooked. Left warm food on the table. Asked gently if he was eating enough.
But Zane always nodded. Always lied. Always retreated to his room before she could ask the real questions.
She loved him the only way she knew how: with distance and decaf tea.
But she didn't know how to love the broken parts.
The dreams came every night.
Not just bad dreams—violent, aching visions that left him drenched in sweat and tears.
Always the same—
Water.
Freezing. Endless. Wrapping around his chest like a curse.
And a voice—screaming. His? Someone else's?
Then flashes.
A bridge.
A figure in black.
A hand reaching out—just out of reach.
And then—
"Don't leave me!"
Zane shot upright in bed, fists clenched, throat raw from screaming. His sheets were soaked. His lungs begged for air.
Footsteps hurried up the stairs—his grandmother burst in, face pale and eyes wide.
"Zane! It's okay, it's just a dream—"
"I—I'm fine," he gasped, voice shaking. "Just… a nightmare."
She hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to come closer.
"You were shouting," she said gently. "Something about... someone leaving?"
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because the worst part wasn't the dream.
It was the way it felt real.
Like it already happened. Like he had already drowned once.
And that scream—don't leave me—wasn't just a plea.
It was a memory clawing its way back up from the dark.
Let me know if you'd like the next part to move toward Zane's walk to the bridge or build more into the subtle supernatural clues surrounding his past.
__________
The next morning, Zane sat by the window long after the sun rose.
He hadn't slept again.
His grandmother had left early to volunteer at the church. She still believed that kindness could save the world. Zane wasn't sure it could even save him.
He stared out at the sky, overcast and heavy—like even the clouds didn't want to be here today.
The wind pressed against the glass like it was trying to speak, like it carried a warning.
Something in him buzzed. Restless. Off.
Like something was waiting.
He didn't go to school.
Instead, he walked the streets, hands in his pockets, hood up, head down. Familiar corners blurred past him: the gas station with the broken light, the bus stop where his mother used to wait, the alley behind the bakery where he once laughed with a boy whose name he'd already forgotten.
Everything felt too loud and too far away at the same time.
Then came the trigger—small, stupid, but it cracked something inside him.
A group of classmates passed by, laughing. One of them glanced at him and muttered, just loud enough:
"There goes the freak. Still ghosting everyone."
They didn't even stop walking.
He didn't react. Not visibly. But the words lodged themselves in his chest like glass.
Maybe they were right. Maybe he really was half-ghost already.
By late afternoon, he found himself back in his room, sitting on the floor with the same notebook he never wrote in.
He flipped to the first page. Blank.
Then he picked up a pen.
And for the first time in a long while…
He wrote three words.
I'm sorry, Gran.
He left the note on his desk. Didn't fold it. Didn't hide it.
He didn't pack anything.
He just slipped on his jacket. Tied his shoes.
And left the door open.
Outside, the wind had picked up. Cold, biting.
But Zane didn't feel it.
Every step felt lighter than the last.
And somewhere behind him—unseen by mortal eyes—a figure in dark robes stepped silently into the world, watching from the shadows.
Not moving. Not intervening.
Just waiting.
Later that night.
The bridge stood like a shadowed monument at the edge of town—old, quiet, and mostly forgotten.
By the time Zane arrived, midnight had already passed.
The streetlamps flickered. The river below glimmered in fractured moonlight. The world felt… paused.
He wasn't alone.
Up ahead, a group of boys—four, maybe five—were spray-painting the bridge's cement walls, laughing too loud for the hour. One of them climbed onto the railing, tagging the rusted metal with a crude drawing and the words:
"NO GODS. NO LAWS."
Zane slowed, debating whether to turn back.
Too late.
One of them saw him.
"Yo! You lost, emo kid?"
The others turned, squinting in the dark. Then came the usual string of mocking laughter, words sharp like teeth.
"Look at this sad freak—what, you ghost-hunting tonight?"
"Bet he writes poetry about dying and thinks it's deep."
Zane didn't respond.
He just kept walking—head down, trying to ignore the shaking in his chest.
"Hey!" One of them stepped in front of him. "You think you're better than us? What, too good to talk now?"
Zane looked up for a brief second—and in that second, something shifted in his expression. Not fear.
Not anger.
Just emptiness.
A void so deep and quiet it unsettled them.
That's when the distant sirens cut through the night.
Blue and red lights flared from around the corner.
"Sh*t! Cops!" someone yelled.
The vandals scattered like startled rats—bolting into the dark, cutting through alleyways and over fences.
Zane stayed frozen.
Two officers stormed onto the bridge, flashlights darting wildly. Their beams landed on him—alone, hoodie up, face pale.
"Hey! You!" one barked, reaching for his radio. "Hands up!"
Zane didn't move.
"Now!" the second officer snapped, rushing closer.
Zane slowly raised his hands, not in surrender, but in a sort of absent gesture—like he was already somewhere else.
"Sir, were you with those kids?"
"We saw you standing near the wall. What's your name?"
But Zane didn't answer.
Because it didn't matter.
No answer would change anything.
No story would be believed.
No name would be remembered.
So instead, he turned around—walked calmly toward the edge of the bridge—and stepped onto the railing.
"Hey—hey! Get down from there!"
"Son, don't do this!"
The officers moved forward, yelling, reaching—but Zane didn't even flinch.
He looked out over the river.
The same one from his dreams.
Same cold pull. Same silence.
Then, with a breath that felt both like a beginning and an ending,
he closed his eyes…
And let himself fall.
_________
The dead didn't frighten Azriel.It was the living who unsettled him.
He stood at the edge of a rooftop, high above the world's noise, cloaked in shadow and stillness. Wind tugged gently at the hem of his long coat, the midnight air threading through strands of his dark blue hair that fell past his shoulders like water at rest.
Eyes like winter frost scanned the city below—pale, almost glowing, the color of forgotten moons. His skin was smooth and fair, unmarked by time, untouched by warmth. He didn't blink unless necessary. His presence was quiet, but absolute.
Azriel was a grim reaper.
Not the scythe-swinging caricature humans liked to sketch in fear, but a true Executor of Fate—a harbinger, bound by celestial law to collect souls at their appointed hour and guide them to the threshold of the next realm.
They called his kind "Lumen Mortis"—the Light of Death.
For thousands of years, Azriel had followed the rules.Each soul came with a file. Each file with a name, a time, a cause.He never questioned. He never intervened. He never failed.
The corridors of the Realm Between were silent as always—cold and carved from obsidian stone, laced with floating glyphs that shifted and rearranged like breathing script.
Azriel's footsteps echoed faintly as he approached the towering doors of the Hall of Divine Assignment, where the highest orders were distributed and fate was calibrated down to the final second.
He didn't need to knock.
The doors opened on their own, sighing like tired lungs.
Inside, the air was dense with celestial energy. Dozens of golden scrolls floated midair in spirals, softly glowing and humming like they carried secrets too heavy to speak aloud.
At the center of the chamber stood Zadkiel—the Fatekeeper.
Head of the Reaper Order.
Bearer of the Master Ledger.
He looked exactly as one would imagine the keeper of the universe to appear:
Wings folded neatly behind his back, robes flowing like starlight, silver hair cascading down his shoulders. His eyes were pure white—pupil-less, endless. His expression was neither cruel nor kind. Just still.
Azriel bowed his head slightly. "You summoned me."
Zadkiel lifted a scroll from the cluster of golden spirals and offered it without looking.
"A clean extraction. One soul. Tomorrow morning. Human realm—Sector 31, Earth-4F."
Azriel accepted the scroll. "Name?"
Zadkiel's voice echoed, layered and low. "Shin Lim. 23. Cause of death: suicide."
Azriel gave a sharp nod. Easy enough. Routine.
He turned to leave—but paused when Zadkiel added, almost as an afterthought:
"Do not be late, Azriel. There is no tolerance for carelessness."
Azriel's jaw tightened. "I never am."
And with that, he disappeared from the Hall, the scroll tucked neatly inside his coat.
His quarters were small and simple—no windows, no bed. Just an ancient desk carved from forgotten wood, and a wall lined with name scrolls sorted by time, realm, and divine priority.
Azriel lit a blue flame in the corner as he sat and began to skim the assignment. The boy was young—too young, really. He scanned the predicted time, the coordinates, and paused only briefly at the tagged note: Dream Interference: High Risk. That was rare, but not unheard of.
Before he could study it further, a familiar knock echoed against the chamber wall.
"Come in," he called, already sensing who it was.
The door opened and in stepped Jamillah, her robe loosely wrapped, cheeks flushed, and golden earrings shimmering like halos beneath her veil of dark curls.
She didn't even pretend to be subtle.
"Az, please," she said breathlessly. "I need a favor."
Azriel didn't lift his gaze from the scroll. "What is it?"
"I need to switch collections. Just for tonight."
He finally looked up. "Why?"
She smiled—guilty, glowing. "Raphael. He managed to get through a tear in the veil for a few hours. You know how rare that is. We only get one night, Azriel. Just one."
Azriel hesitated. Reapers and White Angels were never meant to mix. Forbidden bonds were erased, and sometimes worse. But Jamillah had always danced on the edge of the law with a kind of grace only she could manage.
She saw the answer forming on his face and added, "Please. I already prepped the scroll. It's easy. A heart failure. No resistance. Just grab and go."
He sighed, rubbed his temple, and relented. "Fine. One night."
She beamed and immediately handed him her scroll. "You're the best. I owe you—coffee, maybe a decade of backup shifts."
"You owe me silence," he muttered, but there was no real anger in his tone.
Jamillah laughed and swept out of the room, already fading into the shadows, her robes trailing like moonlight.
Azriel looked down at the new scroll.
Zane Elian Rivas. 18. cause of death: drowning.
New location. New time.
Midnight.
He tucked it into his coat and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment.
Something tugged at him.
Not a feeling—more like a static buzz behind his ribs.
But he shook it off.
It was just another soul.
Absolutely. Here is Chapter One, Part 9 — continuing from Azriel's POV as he arrives at the location to collect Zane's soul. This part brings in suspense, supernatural mechanics, emotional undertones, and the critical moment of rule-breaking that sets the entire story in motion.
Chapter One, Part 9
The Soul Without a Name
Azriel appeared just as the clock struck midnight.
The mortal realm welcomed him with a breath of damp air and the sharp scent of river water. Mist curled around the bridge like fingers, swallowing the space in thick gray coils. The city lights were faint in the distance, flickering like the last sparks of a dying fire.
He stepped onto the cracked pavement, boots silent, his cloak whispering behind him like the wind knew his name.
But something… felt off.
He felt it before he saw it.
A pressure beneath the skin. A prickle against the back of his neck.
And then—a pull.
A familiarity.
That was impossible.
He didn't recognize the soul he was sent to collect. He shouldn't. Reapers didn't feel familiarity. They weren't supposed to. Their job was to sever, not remember.
Azriel shook it off and reached into his coat, pulling out the scroll Jamillah had given him.
He unraveled it.
Then stopped cold.
Blank.
Name: [ ]
Time of death: [ ]
Cause: [ ]
Destination: [ ]
"...No," Azriel whispered.
He turned the scroll over, thinking maybe it had been smudged—wiped by error or exposure.
Still blank.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was an erasure.
He looked down at the river just as the body floated into view—drifting slowly, arms slack, hair spread like ink across the surface.
Azriel's heart lurched.
He lifted his hand, summoning the retrieval mark—an intricate rune of blue light—then extended his palm.
"By decree of the Lumen Mortis, I summon this soul to me."
A surge of energy pulsed outward. The river shimmered.
But the body didn't rise.
Azriel frowned. Tried again, this time pushing harder, lacing the command with celestial force.
Still nothing.
He exhaled sharply. "Come on."
On the third try, the water finally bent—slowly, stubbornly—and the boy's form was drawn upward, suspended midair.
His soul, flickering faintly in the shape of his body, detached from the physical form.
Azriel's chest tightened.
The boy was beautiful in a haunted, fractured way. Pale skin, lips slightly parted. His soul-light was dimmer than most—worn thin, like it had been dying long before the jump.
Their eyes met.
The boy blinked, confused. Disoriented.
"Where... where am I?" he asked. "Who are you?"
Azriel kept his tone level. "My name is Azriel. I'm a grim reaper."
Zane stared. "Like... death?"
"Yes. I was sent to collect you."
There was a pause, a small shift in the air.
Then Zane narrowed his eyes. "That's... that's a joke, right?"
Azriel didn't respond.
"I'm dreaming," Zane added, a little louder now. "This is one of those vivid dreams, or some weird... hallucination thing. I must've hit my head or—"
Azriel opened the scroll again to verify the destination.
Still blank.
He froze.
No name. No order. No exit point. No gate access.
Only one thing explained this.
A Missing Soul.
He remembered the stories—the hushed whispers among reapers. Myths that sounded too wild to be real. But all of them shared the same core:
"Once every five centuries, a soul slips through the cracks. Erased from death. Forgotten by life. Neither here nor beyond. A fluke. A failure. A curse.
They called it a Missing Soul."
Azriel had never believed it. Until now.
He looked at the boy—this soul—standing in front of him, blinking at him in stunned confusion.
"You're not supposed to be dead," Azriel said quietly. "You weren't scheduled. Your name has vanished."
Zane stepped back. "What the hell are you talking about—of course I'm dead, I—"
Azriel raised a finger.
"Look."
Zane turned.
And saw it.
His body.
Floating, pale and motionless, eyes half-lidded.
His legs trembled.
"That... can't be me."
"It is."
Zane staggered backward, breath shaking. "No—no, I didn't mean—I just wanted it to stop, I didn't—"
Azriel looked away.
Emotion was not part of the job. Empathy clouded the task.
But something in his chest ached. Some inexplicable, suffocating weight settled in his bones.
If the Fatekeeper found out—if Zadkiel saw this failure—Azriel would be punished. Maybe worse. Maybe erased.
But he couldn't leave the boy here.
Not like this. Not condemned to drift endlessly between realms.
Reapers were forbidden from restoring life. It was the one law that could not be bent.
Never return what was claimed.
And yet…
Azriel reached out, pressed two fingers to Zane's chest, and whispered words he wasn't allowed to remember knowing.
A surge of light crackled through the air, searing blue and blinding white.
Zane gasped—and vanished.
Azriel stood alone on the bridge again, scroll still blank in his hands, heart pounding for the first time in centuries.
He had just broken the sacred law.
And now, the balance would tip.
//