The city streets were eerily quiet as I walked, my footsteps echoing off the buildings. Sleep had eluded me, the tremors in my hands too violent to ignore. I’d hoped a walk might calm my nerves, but three hours later, I found myself in the heart of downtown, no less shaky than when I’d left my apartment.

The neon signs of late-night convenience stores and bars cast an otherworldly glow on the empty sidewalks. I hugged myself, partly from the chill in the air, partly from the gnawing emptiness inside. Turning down a side street, away from the main drag, I saw him.

A man, probably in his fifties but looking much older, huddled in a doorway. His clothes were ragged, his beard unkempt. But it wasn’t his appearance that caught my attention—it was the pulsing green aura surrounding him, flickering so rapidly it made me dizzy.

My breath caught in my throat. I knew what that meant now. Death was coming for this man, and soon. I paused a moment. Death was coming…was that me?

Without conscious thought, I found myself moving closer. The man’s head snapped up, bloodshot eyes focusing on me with surprising clarity.

“Got any spare change?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

I shook my head, unable to speak. The man shrugged and struggled to his feet.

“Worth a shot,” he muttered, shuffling past me.

I watched him go, my heart racing. I should’ve walked away, gone home, forgotten I ever saw him. But the pull was too strong. My feet moved of their own accord, following the man at a discreet distance.

He led me deeper into the maze of back alleys, to an area I knew by reputation. This was where junkies and dealers congregated, where the police rarely ventured. The man’s pace quickened, his movements becoming more agitated.

As I watched, I noticed something familiar about the way he moved—the trembling hands, the sweating, the constant twitching. It was like looking in a mirror. Was this misery I felt the same as drug withdrawal?

The man ducked into an abandoned building, and I hesitated. This was madness. I should turn back now. But the craving inside me was overwhelming. I needed to know what happened next.

Silently, I crept to the doorway and peered inside. The man was huddled in a corner, a needle glinting in his shaking hands. My stomach churned as I watched him inject the drug into his arm.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the man’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped against the wall. His aura flared bright green, then began to separate from his body.

I moved without thinking. My hand reached into the ether, grasping the familiar cold metal of my scythe. As the green light of the man’s soul rose from his body and gathered into an orb, I swung.

The rush hit me immediately. Warmth flooded my body, pleasure so intense it brought tears to my eyes. The shakes stopped; the gnawing emptiness filled. For one glorious moment, I felt whole.

Then darkness enveloped me, and I found myself once again handing over the soul to the reaper who played gatekeeper to a great river that rushed into nothing but darkness.

“Any words of advice for me today?” I asked. The gatekeeper just pointed away from the water, and I found myself once again wandering to the strange, ethereal coffee shop.

This time, I was prepared. I marched up to the counter, where a barista with no face waited patiently.

“What is this place?” I demanded. “Why am I here?”

The barista tilted its head, its face remaining featureless. “This is the in-between,” it said, its voice neither male nor female. “A place of transition.”

“Transition to what?” I pressed.

“To whatever comes next,” the barista replied, maddeningly vague.

I growled in frustration. “Why can I do... what I do?”

The barista began preparing a cup of coffee. “You are a guide. A shepherd. A reaper of souls.”

“But why me?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I didn’t ask for this.”

The barista placed a steaming mug in front of me. “Few do. Yet here you are.”

I stared at the coffee, then picked it up and took a sip. It was tasteless, like drinking warm water. I set it down, disappointed.

“How do I stop this?” I whispered.

The barista’s featureless face seemed to soften somehow. “You don’t,” it said gently. “This is who you are now.”

Before I could respond, the café faded away. I blinked, finding myself back in the abandoned building. The man’s body lay cold beside me, his soul long gone.

I stumbled to my feet, my legs shaky but not from withdrawal. The high of reaping the soul was fading, but I still felt the best I had since the accident a week ago. Yet, in the back of my mind, there was still a longing. A craving that I knew I’d be forced to fill again.

As I made my way out of the building and back onto the street, the realization hit me like the guard rail had a week ago. I was addicted. Not to drugs or alcohol, but to something far more dangerous and impossible to quit.

I was addicted to death itself.

But for now, all signs of withdrawal were gone, and I felt better.

The moon was still strong overhead, and I wondered if now, I could sleep. I hugged myself tightly, torn between relief that the shakes were gone and horror at what I’d done to stop them.

One thing was certain: I didn’t want to tell anyone about this. Not Kat, not Carter, no one. Besides, I wasn’t quite sure that any of this was real. It was too unbelievable.

As I climbed the stairs to Kat’s apartment, where I had been staying the past week, exhaustion finally caught up with me. I collapsed onto her spare bed, still fully dressed. My last thought before sleep claimed me was a grim one:

How long before I needed my next fix?

And what would I do to get it?