To become Death?
What did that even mean?
The boy turned the tarot card over in his hand, frowning as his brows furrowed. The Fool had said a great misfortune would come. Was the card a prophecy? A warning of what he would face… or what he would become?
At the moment, the boy was perched atop a building in the slums he currently called home. The place reeked of alcohol and decay, and it wasn't much to look at but when he got out, the city itself seemed nice, even if sombre. At least, he thought so. He didn't know the world all too well.
From above, he watched the people move through the cold, dark streets below, curiously. They were like ghosts; most looked sorrowful, yet even then, they had others to rely on. The girls stuck together. The boys formed groups.
He had no one.
No one but Death.
He raised the card to the sunlight, its worn edges catching the light. As he did, another card slipped from behind it. He reached for it, but before his fingers could grasp it, his feet slipped.
Time froze.
He was going to die.
And he couldn't even bring himself to care. He was just Nobody, after all.
But just before he fell, he saw the second card: The Wheel of Fortune. A cycle. One that never ended. An inevitable fate linked to Death.
Unbreaking...
Unrending...
Forever turning round and round...
The boy had been destined for misfortune since the day he was born.
As the world should have gone dark, a hand caught his, pulling him back, and the man who had saved him laughed.
"How foolish, boy," the Fool said, his grin evident behind the mask.
The boy blinked, disoriented. "Why?" he murmured, still looking down.
The Fool chuckled, "Because I'm a fool. Besides…" he gestured to the city below, "See that? There are billions of people down there. But up here? Just the two of us."
The boy looked up, confused. "I don't get it."
"Then don't worry about it," the Fool laughed, tipping his hat.
He looked over the edge. "It's a scary fall, isn't it?"
The boy nodded, instinctively taking a step back.
"You've got terrible luck, it seems," the Fool said, amused.
The boy nodded again. "Why is that?"
The Fool shrugged, wandering along the rooftop's edge like he couldn't fall.
"I don't know," he said.
Then paused.
"Actually… I do. Look at the card you're holding."
The boy looked down. Death. He stared at it for a few seconds then threw it away.
"..."
"Hmm, It doesn't go away that easily, unfortunately," the Fool said.
"Look down."
The boy did. Two cards had landed on the ground below: Death and The Wheel of Fortune.
"A constant cycle," the Fool said. "One that never changes. And Death always at the end of it. Again and again. Over and over."
"So I'm cursed," the boy muttered.
The Fool nodded. "Yeah, most probably."
"Can I uncurse myself?"
"Probably not."
"Then what do I do?" the boy asked quietly.
The Fool shrugged. "What can you do? Just… live."
"But it looks like everything's against me. I'm destined to die."
The Fool nodded with a smile. "Of course. That's why you live."
"...How?"
"If you're destined to die, then you must live, no?
Unless you want to die."
"You don't give good answers."
"Of course not." The Fool laughed, tipping his hat again. "I'm a fool."
The fool bowed, then laughed, leaving the boy alone with a single card, which was his own, the fool.
The boy looked at the card curiously before slipping it into his pocket. Without a word, he turned and walked through the streets, heading back to the place he lived.
He entered the bar. the yellow lights flickered like on their last breath and an old tv crackled at the back of the bar. A girl's doll was face down in the corner on the checkered black and white floors. The floor was littered with broken bottles and shattered glass, the stench of alcohol and vomit hanging thick in the air. Yelling echoed through the cracked walls, sharp and familiar. He heard the crying before he saw it.
Tom, drunk again Tom, furious as always, was wailing on that same little girl.
She saw the boy and ran to him, looking for protection like she always did. But this time… he hesitated. He was tired of stepping in. Tired of trying to help. Maybe he wouldn't, not this time.
He looked down at the card in his pocket and let out a soft, bitter laugh.
Maybe he was a fool, too.
But his feet moved anyway. Before he could think twice, he punched Tom square in the jaw.
It did something this time.
Tom turned toward him in a drunken rage. He grabbed the boy and dragged him across the bar table with a crash, slamming him hard against the edge before throwing him to the floor. The pain was sharp, real. And then Tom's hands were around his throat.
This wasn't like before or every other time Tom had done it.
This time… Tom didn't stop.
The boy struggled. He kicked. He clawed. But the hands stayed tight, choking the air out of him. He looked around.
No one moved.
They all just watched. Every last one of them. Even now the boy was alone forever, as always. the world started to grow still.
He was fated to die here.
The world turned dark at the edges. His vision blurred. His limbs felt heavy. And then he felt it. Death.
It loomed over him. So Terrifying, So Vast, So inescapable.
The pressure too overwhelming. But also so beautiful and ever so empty.
As cold as it was, death welcomed all to its cold embrace.
But even then the boy refused.
No. He would not die. Not like this.
If the world insisted on killing him, on burying him beneath misfortune
Then he would continue to refuse.
He clawed at Tom's face, digging in with his nails. With the last of his strength, he reached for one of the broken bottles on the floor, glass glinting in the dim bar light.
Then, with a wild, desperate swing, he smashed it against Tom's temple.
Tom reeled, stunned.
The boy didn't hesitate. He looked at the jagged edge of the broken bottle. how sharp it was and he knew then
If he could not escape Death… he'd have to become it.
He drove the bottle into Tom's throat.
Blood sprayed.
Everything went still.
The room was silent, except for the gurgling.
Not a single person in that filthy bar wasn't shocked.
They had all watched the Nobody this nothing of a boy, be beaten again and again. But now… he was the one standing.
And Tom was dying.
The boy just stood there, bottle still in hand, soaked in blood.
He felt… nothing.
No joy. No remorse. No rage. No fear.
Only coldness seeped through him like a blizzard.
He watched as Tom gasped and choked, clutching his neck, eyes wide and panicked. The boy stared up at him, expression blank, as the life drained from him.
What a strange thing death was. Cold. Final. Quiet.
Everyone in the room was still staring. Disgusted.
But none of them had helped.
They were glad Tom was dead. He could see it in their eyes. But they looked at him as if he was the monster.
Should he have let himself die instead?
No.
They were all worse than even a nobody like him.
The boy looked around the ruined bar, its walls soaked in blood and silence. Shattered glass glinted beneath flickering lights, and the coppery stench of death clung to everything. He should've felt something: rage, grief, or even fear, but there was nothing.
The boy who once longed for love had only found death.
And in its wake, the warmth he had yearned for all his life faded into nothing. It became a distant dream, like a memory that didn't belong to him. Something unreachable. Unseen. Unfelt.
Everyone stared.
But none of them were remorseful.
In this infinite, indifferent universe, he was all alone.
Except for one.
The only person who didn't look at him with fear or hatred was a fool. That fool who stood in the corner, clapping softly with mockery and approval, as if he'd been watching from the very start.
The boy turned slowly.
Others were coming now, men with knives, broken bottles, and makeshift weapons gripped in shaking hands. Rage burned in their eyes. Hatred, fear and vengeance even for him.
The boy didn't flinch.
He only tightened his grip on the glass shard, holding it in front of him like a dying flame.
And then
The fool had moved.
A storm in human form, graceful and deliberate. He danced through the chaos, every motion a masterstroke. He dodged and weaved like a whisper in the wind, precise and unrelenting. Every strike he made landed exactly where it had to. He didn't hesitate. He didn't miss.
He knew.
He knew everything.
Men. Women. Even the children screamed. But the fool just laughed. Oh, what a fool he was! spinning and slicing, dancing across the bloodstained floor.
When it was over, only silence remained.
The corpses lay still. Blood splattered everywhere, a grotesque scene yet the boy remained still; he didn't shake nor cry. He had never learned how and he didn't imagine he would.
The fool stood smiling, the ever-present grin carved into the mask that never left his face. He looked at the boy with those amused, glinting eyes from behind his mask, unbothered, unafraid, and unmoved.
He was the only one who didn't seem to mind the boy named Death.
Now it was just the two of them. Everyone else had either fled or fallen. The bar stood quiet again.
"You killed them all," the boy said.
The fool laughed.
"Not all. Only the ones who came at you. The others? They ran," he said with a shrug, as if none of it mattered.
The boy nodded slowly. He didn't know what else to do.
"...What now?" he asked.
It was the only question that made sense.
The fool tilted his head, amused by the simplicity of it.
"A good question," he said, in a laugh.
"What is it?" the boy asked, watching him carefully now the only person who hadn't treated him like a ghost.
"It's not that hard," the fool chuckled. "In fact, for someone like you, I think it's perfect."
He stepped forward, his masked gaze locked onto the boy's, a strange weight behind his words.
The coldness in his eyes was the same. A reflection.
They were one. They were the same.
"Do you know what it means?" the fool asked. His voice was reverent.
"To be a hunter?"