They say no mortal can touch death without losing their soul.
But that night, I tore Death's hand from my child—and damned myself instead.
The rain fell without mercy.
Cold, slicing droplets hammered against the broken windows of the small apartment, carrying with them the bitter smell of iron and dust. Inside, a man knelt on the blood-stained floor, trembling hands pressed against the tiny chest of a seven-year-old boy.
"Come on… breathe," he whispered, voice cracking between hope and hysteria. "Please, Aarush, breathe for Papa. Please…"
The boy's body was limp, his skin ghost-pale beneath the harsh flicker of a single overhead bulb. The room was half-destroyed—glass shattered, furniture overturned, the ceiling fan dangling like a broken limb. There had been an explosion, a gas leak perhaps, or maybe something far less earthly. But the man didn't care. He only cared about the small heartbeat beneath his palms.
And there was none.
The man's name was Aarav Malhotra—thirty-eight years old, once an engineer, once a husband, once a son. Now he was just a hollow shell of all those titles, kneeling in a pool of blood that belonged to the last reason he had to live.
His breaths came ragged, desperate. The echo of sirens wailed in the distance, but they were too far. Everything was too far.
He clutched the boy tighter. "You took everything from me," he whispered, voice rising, trembling with rage and disbelief. His eyes lifted to the cracked ceiling, to the thunder growling above. "My parents… my sisters… my wife. And now—you dare to take him?"
His words turned into a hoarse roar, each syllable cutting through the storm. "He's my life! My only anchor! You won't take him! You hear me? You won't take him!"
Lightning flashed, illuminating the tears that streaked his face. Then, almost as if the heavens mocked him, thunder answered back—a low, rolling sound that vibrated the walls and rattled his bones.
And that's when he felt it.
A chill slithered through the room. The air grew heavy, thick, suffocating. The lights flickered again—once, twice—and then dimmed to a faint glow.
The world around him stilled. The sound of rain faded, the ticking of the clock stopped. Even the blood dripping from his son's wound seemed to hang suspended in mid-air.
Then, shadows moved.
They weren't shaped like men, nor like beasts. They were outlines—thin, elongated silhouettes that shimmered like smoke yet carried a presence so palpable it made Aarav's skin crawl. Three of them drifted through the cracked wall, silent, graceful, and horrifyingly calm.
Each one carried something that looked like a hooked chain—black as night, shimmering faintly with a sickly white light at the tip.
The Servants of the Death God had come.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their purpose was as old as time itself—collect the departing souls and carry them across the Veil.
One of them extended its hook, the glimmering edge curling toward Aarush's small chest. The faint, fading light of a child's soul began to stir—like a golden mist rising from his body.
And that's when the impossible happened.
Aarav saw it.
He shouldn't have. Mortals weren't meant to see the Reapers of Death. But grief had broken something within him—or perhaps awakened something else entirely. Because in that moment, his eyes burned with an otherworldly clarity. He saw the hook. He saw the ghostly hands. And he saw the line—the invisible tether between the hook and his son's fragile soul.
The Reaper lunged forward.
"No…" Aarav breathed, voice trembling. Then louder—"NO!"
Before the hook could anchor, Aarav's hand shot forward.
It was instinct, madness, or maybe divine defiance—but his fingers closed around the chain.
A blinding shock of cold surged through him. His veins lit up like lightning, his vision blurred white, and the sound of screaming—thousands of screaming souls—echoed in his ears. His flesh should have burned. His mind should have shattered.
But it didn't.
Instead, he pulled.
The Reaper, shocked, staggered. It tried to retreat, but Aarav yanked the chain with all his strength. "You—won't—take—him!" he roared, voice shaking the still air. The creature stumbled forward, its form rippling like smoke under a hurricane.
With a guttural cry, Aarav slammed his other fist upward. The Reaper hit the floor with a soundless impact, and the instant it touched the ground—it disintegrated into a cloud of ash.
The other two froze.
For the first time in the eternity of their service, Death's Servants hesitated.
Aarav stood over the fading ashes, chest heaving, chain still clenched in his hand. His eyes glowed faintly gold—soul light leaking from a body not meant to contain it.
He didn't understand what was happening. He only knew one thing.
"They won't take you," he whispered to his son, voice trembling. "Not you… not now…"
The remaining Servants glided backward, communicating in silent echoes of thought. Aarav couldn't hear words, but he felt their intent: "He sees us."
"He shouldn't."
"Alert the Herald. The mortal is marked."
As they faded back into the darkness, the air returned—the rain, the sound, the movement. But the silence they left behind was suffocating. Aarav stumbled, his knees giving way. The black chain in his hand dissolved, leaving behind faint burns on his skin shaped like a serpent of light.
He gasped for breath, trembling. Then he looked down.
Aarush's chest moved.
Just slightly—but enough.
A shallow, uneven breath. A heartbeat—weak but real.
Aarav froze, unable to believe it. "Aarush…? Aarush, can you hear me?"
The boy's eyelids fluttered, barely opening. His lips moved, whispering something too faint to hear.
Aarav sobbed, clutching his son's small hand. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm right here, son… you'll be fine. You'll live."
Outside, beyond mortal sight, the storm parted over the city.
High above the clouds, in a realm of endless mist and whispering echoes, a figure stirred upon a throne of bone and starlight. His eyes—twin voids—opened.
A servant knelt before him, voice echoing like the rustle of dry leaves. "My Lord Death… a mortal interfered. He saw us."
Death tilted his head. His voice, when it came, was calm and ancient.
"Impossible."
"He seized the chain. Destroyed one of us."
Silence.
Then, slowly, a skeletal hand rose. Threads of shadow rippled outward, spreading across the realm like ink through water.
"Find him. Find the one who defied me."
Later that Night
Aarav sat beside the hospital bed, exhaustion hanging over him like a shroud. His son slept peacefully now—monitors beeping softly beside him. Doctors called it a miracle. They said his heart had stopped for three minutes before restarting without reason.
Aarav didn't tell them the reason.
He sat silently, staring at the faint bandages on his own burned hand. The mark still glowed faintly beneath the gauze—shaped like the chain he'd held. He could still feel it. The weight, the cold, the power.
When the nurse left the room, he leaned closer to his son. "You scared me," he whispered, brushing a lock of hair from the boy's forehead. "Don't ever do that again, alright?"
A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He looked at the window. Outside, the rain had stopped, but a fog had rolled in. For a moment, he thought he saw shapes moving within it—dark, slender outlines gliding across the parking lot. But when he blinked, they were gone.
He told himself it was exhaustion. Stress. Trauma.
But unbeknownst to him the moment he touched that hooked chain, he crossed a line that no man should ever cross.
Two Days Later
Aarav didn't sleep much. Nightmares came in flashes—the chain, the screaming souls, the cold voice whispering from beyond the veil.
He tried to ignore it. For his son's sake.
But on the second night, as he stood outside Aarush's hospital room to get some air, he heard a voice. Not loud—just a whisper.
Right behind him.
"You shouldn't have touched what isn't yours."
He turned sharply.
At the end of the corridor stood a man in a dark suit. Pale, elegant, with eyes like twin shadows. People passed by without noticing him—as if he didn't exist. But to Aarav, his presence filled the hall like gravity.
The man smiled faintly. "You tore a thread that was meant to end. Do you understand what you've done, mortal?"
Aarav clenched his fists. "Who are you?"
The man stepped closer, shoes making no sound. "A messenger. A herald. I come to reclaim what belongs to my lord."
Aarav's stomach tightened. "You mean my son."
The Herald tilted his head. "His time was written. You interfered. The balance must be restored."
"Balance?" Aarav spat, voice breaking. "You call taking a child balance? You think you can just decide who lives and who dies?"
The Herald's smile vanished. "It is not our choice. It is Fate."
Aarav's pulse pounded. "Then tell your Fate she'll have to kill me first."
The Herald sighed, lifting a hand. "So be it."
The lights in the corridor flickered. Shadows surged from the floor, rising like serpents.
But Aarav was already moving. His body moved on instinct—something deep inside responding before his mind could catch up. His hand burned, the faint mark flaring with gold light. A ghostly chain materialized in his grip, humming with energy.
The Herald froze for a fraction of a second—then smiled faintly. "Interesting."
Aarav swung.
The chain lashed through the air, colliding with the oncoming shadows. They shattered like glass under sunlight. The impact sent a tremor down the hall, windows cracking, lights bursting.
When the smoke cleared, the Herald stood unharmed—but surprised. "You shouldn't possess that power. No mortal should."
Aarav's chest heaved. "I told you. He will live."
The Herald studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing as if peering into his very soul. Then, with a faint smirk, he dissolved into mist.
"Then let us see how long you can defy Death, soulbreaker."