"Lord Hades," Sylvia spoke gently, bowing low. "We have completed the Dark Tower, and the preparations are finalized. Shall we proceed?"
"Do as you please," Hades replied, his attention fixed on the book in his hands. He sat in his grand library—a quiet, expansive space tucked away in a small, isolated house far removed from civilization. Sylvia bowed once more and withdrew.
Hades disappeared from the face of the earth once every fifty years, resurfacing a decade later with a new name and identity. Being immortal made a permanent life difficult; the questions regarding his unchanging youth were a nuisance he preferred to avoid. Closing his heavy volume, he walked to the window. He stared out at the sprawling, desolate farmland—the sanctuary where he retreated to mark the passage of his long, tedious cycles.
It was a fresh start, yet it felt like a hollow ritual. He had played this game for centuries, and it had become profoundly boring. However, after ten years of self-imposed seclusion, he felt a flicker of interest. He was curious to see what the world had become in his absence.
Sylvia exited the house, having secured his departure report. She was one of the twelve Patrons of Death—known to the underworld as the Grim Reapers—a title and role bestowed upon them by Hades himself. She drove to the city, returning the next day in a sleek, high-end vehicle to transport her master to his new residence.
The Dark Tower was the tallest building in the city, owned entirely by Hades. His personal penthouse occupied the top floor, while the remaining levels were staffed by members of his Order. He possessed empires across the globe, making him essentially the wealthiest person on the planet, though his fortune was carefully segmented into twelve distinct factions. The twelve Patrons served as the public faces for these various worldwide businesses, and consequently, they were ranked among the twelve wealthiest individuals on earth.
As the driver navigated the streets, Hades observed the world through his tablet, updating himself on modern currents. He had avoided all communication for a decade simply because he felt no urge to engage. Now that he had returned, he needed to understand the mechanics of this current era.
As they approached the edge of the city, passing through a rural district, a stray cat darted into the path of the speeding Maybach. Sylvia didn't brake; she didn't care to. But just as the car neared the animal, a young man dived into the road. He snatched the cat away, narrowly avoiding being crushed by mere inches.
Hades looked out through the tinted glass. He saw the young man sprawled on the pavement, bruised but clutching the cat to his chest. Their eyes locked for a split second. Though the boy could not see through the dark tint, Hades saw him perfectly.
As the personification of Death, Hades knew the scent of a fading life better than anyone. He could sense the exact moment a soul began to fray. He realized with a strange, dark jolt that the young man who had just saved the cat had been closer to the end of his life a moment ago than he had been in years.
The young man stood up, brushing the dirt from his clothes as he watched the black car vanish into the distance.
"I wonder," Ken muttered to himself, softly stroking the cat. "Does money make people cruel, or do they simply not value life at all?"
Ken was a nineteen-year-old freshman. He had lost his father at eight, and his mother had been hospitalized for nearly two years. He juggled three jobs,delivering newspapers before dawn, working at a restaurant by noon, and tending bar at night just to cover his tuition and her medical bills. He was still on his paper route when the incident occurred, unaware that this chance encounter would soon rewrite the trajectory of his entire existence.
Hades arrived at the Dark Tower shortly after. A man in his early thirties, known as Lex, stepped forward to open the door. Hades walked in with a casual, predatory grace. They ascended to the highest floor in silence. The penthouse was a study in obsidian—black curtains, black marble, and minimalist furniture. It suited his tastes perfectly.
"It is acceptable. Perfection, I must commend your work, Sylvia," Hades noted.
Sylvia bowed, keeping her head low. She had served him for nearly two centuries; she knew his preferences better than she knew herself.
"Lord Hades, you have an appointment at noon with Lance," Sylvia said. "Shall she book the venue, or do you have a place in mind?"
"Find a suitable restaurant nearby," Hades replied, already moving toward his bedroom. "We will speak there."
Slyvia nodded and then she bowed and left, meanwhile hades walked around the apartment inspecting it but it was slyvia's design and it was obviously nothing short of perfection.
The appointment was set. Hades arrived at a high-end restaurant, cloaked in a long coat and a scarf that obscured the sharp lines of his face. As he approached the table, Lance stood and bowed. he sat only once he was settled, sliding a thick file across the table.
"Lord Hades, the file contains the identity changes you requested. The official name is... Lucien Luther," Lance said.
"Lucien Luther?"
Hades said as he reached for the file, his fingers brushing the paper, when a voice interrupted him. A waiter approached the table with a soft, calm tone.
"May I take your order, please?"
Hades looked up. It was the same face from earlier that day—the young man who had risked his life for a stray. The waiter wore a warm smile, and his eyes shone with a genuine hope that Hades had not witnessed in a very long time.
That look sparked something entirely new in the personification of Death: a terrifying, bottomless curiosity.
For the first time in history, Hades felt something, something he couldn't yet understand, a spark in the void.