You Very Dead Boy.

TOKYO, 2025.

I killed so many, but no matter how many dreadful legends I defeated, I just couldn't find him—not even a shadow. Everything else is just noise.

I hate noise.

* * *

"Welcome home, Xelian, hope you had a fulfilling day," a strange voice echoed immediately as the teen stepped into the grand and highly decorated Malkuri Mansion, a name he hardly used.

He was slim but tall, his pitch-black hair sticking out in uneven clumps, scattered in a way that looked intentional rather than careless. A plain green shirt clung loosely to his frame, blue jeans hanging low at his waist. A small school bag rested on his back.

He headed straight for the stairs with a placid look, ignoring the voice.

On the first floor, just a few paces before a white door, he stopped. Raising his head to the ceiling, he casually twisted his neck. Facing the door again, he swiftly kicked it open.

A thrusting red boxing glove launched at him, hitting him right in the face with enough energy to knock out a grown man. He fell back a few steps, holding his nose as he welcomed the pain. Blood rushed down his chin, dripping to the ground in steady drops.

The teen's hand dropped,

"What the hell was that? It didn't even graze me."

The edges of his lips curved slightly as he stared down at the wobbly glove.

The blood kept coming.

MIDNIGHT.

Xelian's shut eyes twitched, he squeezed his face as he shook to the disturbance only he felt. He slowly opened his eyes, or at least he thought he did, but all he saw was darkness.

Within a pitch-black, unending space, he stood alone in the middle of it, his body the only illuminating object, surrounded by a faint white light that enveloped his frame.

Then he felt a pull at his right hand, he didn't jolt, didn't pull back. It was a familiar feeling, and he welcomed it. A little girl drifted towards him, her hand already locked in with his, but for some reason, his light didn't reach her.

She smiled up at him, her dark pupils wide demanding attention. She wore a white knee-length dress, designed with flowers.

"I still haven't found him, I'm running out of leads." He stared into the abyss.

"Will you resume your search for me then?" The little girl swung her other arm back and forth, facing the space, too.

Xelian didn't reply, the little girl withdrew her smile.

"You're still a pathetic twelve-year-old, it's no wonder older me tries to kill you every time we meet." Her smile surfaced once more, but more edgy and mischievous.

* * *

The crackling sound of thunder pierced through the thick glass windows that protected Xelian's room, flashes of light slipped through too, accompanied by the sound of persistent raindrops that smashed against the window pane.

The teen struggled on his bed, his brows and lips folding against the noise.

He curled up, subconsciously trying to evade the throbbing sounds, until he finally forced his eyes open.

He could barely see a thing, only marking out outlines of various familiar edges. He lay quietly, watching the ceiling.

This really needs to stop. he thought.

A thunder strike ensued, forcing a quick flash of light to illuminate the entire room. But that's all it took to spot a figure looking down on him.

"Hi there," a thick voice said, so close he could feel the vibration on his chest.

Another lightning strike came almost immediately, illuminating the whole room again for a second, but this time the figure wasn't alone, a silenced pistol was raised just beside its head.

As soon as the darkness returned, a series of concise shots rang out, again and again till there was nothing left.

The teen felt a weight drop on his lap, heavy enough to restrict him. The storm was subsiding, and the light it produced didn't reach Xelian's room anymore.

What a lousy assassin, you couldn't even land a single hit.

He released a deep sigh, pushing off the lump body.

After some seconds the light came on, not from the storm but the various bulbs which ended the darkness. The teen stood beside the light switch with a pistol in his left hand.

He stared at his bed, frozen for some reason. His grey eyes never did a good job at portraying his feelings, but the moment he stared at his bed — they looked jumpy.

"Damn kid, nice reflexes you got there." A man of average height literally walked out of the shadows, pressing his right palm against his scalp.

Xelian surprisingly ignored him, the same guy he just emptied a full mag on. He just locked his sights on his bed, not moving or reacting. The man wore a pitch black cloak which lacked a headpiece and dark pointy shoes.

As he drew closer to Xelian, each step took away the life in the room. His beaming smile couldn't dominate his natural presence, even the bulbs went dim.

He stole a glance at the teen's bed, but didn't find anything strange about it; it was nicely arranged, smart looking, and above all, providing comfort to its owner — Xelian, who was still curled up on the bed, undisturbed.

The man sighed, bringing down his hand.

"I know you must have a lot of questions—"

BANG!!

"What the hell?!" The man staggered backwards, gripping his forehead.

A small piece of metal bounced on the tiled floor, a bullet casing it seemed.

The man stomped his right leg forward, revealing a pair of blood red eyes, screaming to tear the teen apart.

Unfazed, the teen firmly held up his gun, pointing it straight at the strange man without even taking his eyes off his bed.

"You annoying — dead — very dead boy. You get it? You're dead, very much so! And I'm here to retrieve your soul, being a Grim Reaper and all, so stop your —"

BANG!

Another bullet hit the man's skull, this one made a dent before freely falling off its target. Several veins stretched across the man's neck, extending to his jaw in an abnormal pattern.

"A grim reaper huh?" Xelian scoffed.

"That's a really unnecessary codename."

The mysterious man's veins suddenly retreated,

"I'm the real deal, unfortunately for you." he exhaled deeply, his eyes turned back to normal.

"Right. You're the Grim Reaper—"

Xelian turned his pale grey eyes to the entity cloaked in darkness.

"—then I'm fucking Santa Claus."

He pulled the trigger once more.