Word spread in whispers. The broken, the desperate, and the curious began visiting Leo's apartment above the bar, paying in cash for glimpses of their ends. He saw heart attacks, accidents, suicides—and sometimes, preventable tragedies he could stop.
But one client was different: a gaunt, elegant man named Elias Thorne, who didn't ask to see his own death. Instead, he offered to buy the box for a sum that could erase Leo's debts forever.
"This artifact doesn't belong in the hands of someone who doesn't understand its weight," Thorne said, his voice like silk over steel. Leo refused.
That night, after closing, Leo tested the box on himself—a moment of morbid curiosity.
The glass turned blood-red. The vision was not of old age or illness, but of himself, lying broken at the foot of his own stairs, a shadowy figure standing over him. The timestamp glowed: 24 hours from now.
His death had a face—and it wasn't an accident. It was murder.