Five a.m. and I’m in an empty bar. The exit sign over the door hums and goes out. “Always loved prophetic signs.” The bottle of bourbon on the counter is half empty. I look at the heap of misery behind the bar. That body used to be a sad excuse for a human, a criminal, a rat. Until someone orders him ended.

“That. Was. Sweet!” A hooded figure peels from the shadow, gloved hands clapping. “Too bad nobody appreciates a good craftsman.” He hands me a card. It only says, Reaper. “But I do. I’m Grim.”

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