I wanted something.
Something no one else wished for.
Something people ran from, cursed, feared…
Something whispered about at funerals and forgotten in daylight.
Death.
Not the fantasy kind—
Not the type where a hero dies on page 32 and magically respawns on page 33 with a power-up.
No.
I wanted the real thing.
The quiet one.
The final one.
The kind that doesn't return you to the world you left.
Because to me, death always felt… distant.
Like a cruel joke.
Like it hated me.
Every time I reached for it—
Every time I thought, "this is it"…
It slipped through my fingers.
Like I wasn't worthy of it.
Like I was nothing more than a background character in someone else's tragic comedy.
A toy for fate.
A puppet for suffering.
A joke for the universe.
But fine.
If death didn't want me…
If it thought I needed it…
Then I would show it otherwise.
I didn't need death.
I didn't need release.
I didn't need mercy.
If the world wanted to break me—
If fate wanted to watch me struggle—
If death wanted to dance just out of reach—
Then I'd choose something else.
I'd tear the script apart.
I'd flip the story upside down.
I'd carve my own ending into the bones of the world.
And when death finally looks at me?
I'll glare right back.
Because I'm done chasing it.
Now…
it will chase me.