The book slams shut with finality, the ancient leather cover sealing against itself with a sound like a tomb door closing. The pulsing light dims instantly, leaving your dorm room cast in the faint glow of the streetlamp outside your window. Your fingers ache where they had been touching the pages—tiny burn marks forming patterns across your skin that look suspiciously like the diagram from the book.
"Fuck..." you whisper, rubbing your stinging hands. The book sits inert now, a simple, unremarkable tome. But you know better. "This is doesn't make sense. I need more clue." The book remains closed, its leather cover now cool to the touch. You run your fingers over the burn marks on your hands, feeling the raised flesh beneath your fingertips. They throb in time with your pulse, as if the pain itself is trying to communicate something.
"Fuck... fuck... fuck..." The words come out in a low, uneven rhythm as you stand. Your body feels different somehow—heavier, as if the knowledge you've gained has physical weight. The leather binding resists your grip, the cover immovable despite your desperate pulling. You feel the book's energy push back against you, its surface growing hot under your palms. The burn marks on your hands pulse with pain in response.
"This is bullshit," you snarl, slamming your fist against the cover. The impact sends a jolt up your arm, making your teeth clench. The book doesn't even shift. Your laughter starts as a bitter chuckle, then builds into something darker. The sound echoes oddly in the small room, as if the walls themselves are laughing with you. Your shoulders shake as the absurdity of the situation fully crashes over you—forty years old, unemployed, living in a dingy dorm, and now apparently the God of Death. The absurdity of it makes your ribs hurt with the force of your laughter.
"Hah! God of Death?" you wheeze, wiping at your eyes. "Me? Fucking me?" Then suddenly, you heard someone knock your door. The knocks come three times in quick succession—thump, thump, thump. Your laughter cuts off abruptly as a voice sings through the door, warping the words of "Happy Birthday" into something far more ominous:
"Happy Death Day to You..
Happy Death Day to You..
Happy Death Day Milo Angglas..
Happy Death Day to You.."
The voice is distorted, like an old radio station caught between frequencies. It doesn't sound human at all. You freeze, the blood draining from your face.
Your body locks up, muscles tensing as adrenaline floods your system. The distorted singing continues outside your door, each syllable stretching unnaturally. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the air suddenly too thick to draw properly. The burn marks on your hands throb in time with your hammering heart.
"H-happy death day..." you repeat to yourself, the words scraping your throat raw. Your fingers twitch toward the doorknob before you can stop them. The singing cuts off instantly, leaving only the faint creak of floorboards outside. The moment your fingers brush the doorknob, it turns violently in the opposite direction. The door flies open with a bang that makes your heart lurch. Standing in the threshold is a man who shouldn't be there—a tall figure wrapped in dark cloth, his face obscured by a hood pulled low.
"Congratulations, Milo Angglas," the figure says in a voice like wind through dead leaves. "The Fifth God of Death." The figure steps forward with unnatural fluidity, forcing you to retreat into your room. The dim light from your lamp catches something glinting beneath his hood—two dark orbs that aren't eyes.
"My name is Kwanase," the figure says, each word flowing like liquid. "Fourth God of Death. Your predecessor." His head tilts at an angle no human neck could manage. "The book you hold contains our legacy. Our curse." The wrapped package in his hand shifts, the paper rustling as if alive. "Would you mind if I have a cup of coffee, Milo? I've come here from japan." The request catches you off guard—so mundane in the face of this impossible reality. Your fingers tighten around the book, its cover now cool to the touch. The figure, Kwanase, remains motionless, waiting.
"I... I don't have much," you say, your voice rough. Your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears. "Just instant coffee."
"That's fine," he says, stepping past you with a whisper of movement. His presence makes the air feel heavy, dense with something you can't name. You step into the kitchen, pulling out a chipped mug and shaking the instant coffee jar. The spoon clatters against porcelain as you measure it, your hands unsteady. Kwanase stands silently behind you, watching. When you turn, you notice he's removed his hood, revealing a face that isn't quite human—pale skin stretched too tight across angular features, eyes black as voids.
"Thank you," he says as you hand him the mug. He doesn't take it immediately, his long fingers hovering near yours. His fingers brush against yours as he accepts the mug, sending an involuntary shudder through your body. The contact is like ice against your skin—cold and somehow wrong. Kwanase raises the mug to his lips and drinks, his face betraying nothing. The coffee doesn't seem to affect him.
"Good," he says after a pause, setting the mug down with careful precision. "Human coffee hasn't changed much in two hundred years." Your breath catches at the casual mention of time. Two hundred years, He's might been dead for centuries. "Wh- what do you mean? Alright, you just told me that you're the forth god of death before, right? Kwana- I mean, Sir Kwanase, can you explain more about this fucking shit?" Kwanase's lips curl into something that might be a smile, though his expression remains eerily static. "You're already dead, Milo Angglas. You just haven't realized it yet." His fingers trace the rim of your coffee mug, leaving frost-like condensation on the porcelain. "The book you hold is proof of that."
Your blood runs cold as you look down at the tome in your hands. The leather cover feels wrong under your fingers—too smooth in places, too rough in others. "Wh- What? No... I'M STILL BREATHING!", "Breathing doesn't mean you're alive, Milo." Kwanase's voice drops to a near-whisper as he steps closer. The air around him grows colder. "It just means your body still functions. Automatically. Like a machine left running after its operator has walked away."
Your fingers tremble as you clutch at your chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart. "I... I can feel it. My heartbeat. I feel pain when I stub my toe." The words tumble out, desperate and unsteady. Kwanase tilts his head slightly, watching you with those bottomless black eyes. "Do you?" He extends a hand, placing it palm-up between you. A small flame flickers into existence above his palm—steady and bright in the dim light of your dorm room.
"Can you feel it?" he asks, moving the flame closer to your skin. You jerk back instinctively as the heat approaches. "Yes! It's hot!" His smile widens fractionally. "No, it isn't. Not really. Not anymore." The flame dances inches from your face, casting unnatural shadows across the walls. You feel no heat at all now—just an eerie absence where the fire should be.
"I can't feel it," you whisper, staring at the impossibly bright flame. "What... what the hell is happening to me?" Kwanase withdraws his hand, and the flame extinguishes in an instant. "How old are you today, Milo Angglas?" He lights a cigarette. You hesitate, throat dry. "Forty... forty today." Your voice cracks on the last word.
Kwanase exhales smoke through his nose, staring at you with that unsettling stillness. "Well.. That means you're dead." Your mind reels. "I didn't die. I'm right here." You gesture wildly at yourself, at your body, at the room. "I'm breathing, I'm thinking, I'm—", "You're repeating," he interrupts, voice like ice. "That's not the same as living. Do you know what's 40 means in Javanese Culture, Mr. Milo?" He took a deeper drag on his cigarette. You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "Uh... yes. It's my birthday. And... it means I'm middle-aged now. Past prime."
Kwanase exhales smoke slowly through his nose, watching you with those black eyes that seem to reflect no light. "That's not what I meant." He stubs out the cigarette with deliberate precision. "In Javanese tradition, a person's forty years is a significant threshold. It marks a turning point in life. The fourth major cycle." Kwanase leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His fingers steeple in front of him, smoke still curling from the cigarette butt.
"Every forty years in Javanese belief, a person experiences a major transition. The first forty is learning to live. The second is building a life. The third is maintaining it." His eyes bore into yours. "The fourth is preparing to leave it." The words hit you with crushing force. You feel something deep inside you shift, like a rusted cog finally turning after decades of stillness.
"Stop talking about the Javanese Culture. I don't understand and don't care at all. We're in England now, so stop telling me a bullshit, Kwanase." Kwanase's face remains unchanged, but something dark and ancient flickers in his eyes at your outburst. The air in the small dorm room grows heavier, pressing against your skin like a physical presence.