Death did not like loose ends.
Theo's soul hung in the threshold between moments, caught just before it could be pushed back into motion. Death had already reached for it, fingers closing around the familiar shape, ready to divert it sideways instead of forward.
Not back.
Away.
The Spiritual World waited just beyond, calm and still. A place where time softened and repetition could no longer dig its claws in. Death intended to put the soul there, anchor it, force the cycle to stop grinding itself into nothing.
It would have been cleaner.
Kinder, even.
Death tightened its grip.
The space resisted.
Not strongly. Not violently. Just enough.
A presence pressed down, subtle but absolute. Not a voice. Not a form. More like a rule asserting itself.
No.
Death paused.
Its hood tilted slightly, bone mask unmoving, but irritation rippled through the void around it. The scythe it held scraped lightly against nothing, a sound like frost cracking.
"This soul is unstable," Death said, tone clipped but controlled. "Its pattern violates natural closure."
The presence did not respond at first.
Death continued, carefully. Politely. It had learned long ago that volume meant nothing here.
"It repeats beyond allowance," Death said. "Beyond precedent. Even my ledgers reject it. This is not a normal regression. It erodes causality."
A pause.
Then the pressure returned, heavier now.
Let the soul follow its timeline.
Death's fingers curled.
"Timeline?" Death echoed, annoyance bleeding through despite itself. "This soul does not have one. It folds back on itself. It loops. It fractures probability every time it returns."
The scythe shifted, its edge catching faint, impossible light.
"I can contain it," Death said. "I should contain it."
The pressure sharpened.
Do not question the source.
Silence followed.
Death went still.
That phrase again.
Not an answer. Not an explanation. A boundary.
Death exhaled slowly. The void around it cooled, annoyance settling into something heavier. It did not understand why this soul mattered. It could not see the full shape of the command. Only that it existed, and that it was not meant to be dissected.
"So be it," Death muttered.
It loosened its grip.
Theo's soul slipped free, drawn forward by forces Death was not allowed to interrupt. The path opened, smooth and inevitable, leading back into motion.
Death watched it go, scythe resting against its shoulder.
"Troublesome," it said quietly. "Utterly troublesome."
The void remained silent.
Death turned away, irritation simmering beneath its composure. It would obey. It always did. Even when the work multiplied. Even when the rules bent into shapes it did not like.
It adjusted its grip on the scythe and muttered under its breath.
"Serving an annoying soul," Death said, "at the request of an even more annoying… benefactor."
The word felt wrong in its mouth, almost blasphemous.
Somewhere beyond its reach, a presence lingered. Amused. Unbothered.
Death did not look back.
It had work to do.
Again.