The fine dining café stood resilient against the snowy winter night, its warm glow spilling onto the frost-kissed streets. Inside, the air carried the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, though only a few customers remained, lost in quiet conversations or the comfort of solitude.
Mister End sat by the window, a book resting in his gloved hands. The pages turned with slow precision, each line pulling him deeper into the mystery and romance woven within. A flawless work—crafted by none other than his lackey, Miss Creda. He allowed himself a smirk. It was impressive.
Then, the door chimed.
His eyes flicked up, and there she was. Draped in an elaborate ensemble, a cutout-shoulder blue Jirai Kei blouse with ruffled neckline, each delicate stitch meticulously crafted by a professional spirit user. An outfit of long name and complex design—one only meant for those who commanded attention.
And she did.
Sarah stepped forward, the soft click of her heels barely audible over the quiet hum of the café. A gentle smile graced her lips, warm and serene, as if she were nothing more than an ordinary guest.
Yet, the room had fallen silent.
The few remaining customers sat frozen—no, not frozen. Lifeless. Their bodies slumped against tables, coffee cups slipping from limp fingers, eyes glazed over in vacant stillness. No screams, no struggle. Just the quiet, inevitable hush that always followed her presence.
Her motto was simple: Just by existing, someone dies.
And so, as always, she lived—and others did not.
"You always getting attention and always someone dies, why don't you be covertly pretentious sometimes."
"True but I just can't resist to walk like any other people, you know that I can't control my appearance to most people, they just die."
Sarah's voice floated through the café, smooth and delicate, like silk brushing against the air. The moment her words left her lips, a man near the counter shuddered. His breath hitched—then stopped. His body slumped forward, the warmth fading from his skin as his coffee cup tipped, spilling across the table.
Yet, behind the counter, the barista remained. He moved with practiced ease, steam curling from the spout of the machine as he poured another cup. His face showed no fear, no recognition of the quiet massacre unfolding before him.
Sarah's gaze flickered toward him, curiosity glinting in her eyes. He didn't flinch. Didn't even glance at the lifeless bodies around him.
Strange.
Maybe he wasn't human.
"So what do you want in this date?"
Mister End exhaled sharply, fingers tapping against the book's worn cover. His violet eyes, usually dulled with indifference, now flickered with irritation as he regarded the woman across from him.
Sarah, draped in her intricate blouse, sat with effortless poise, her gentle smile never wavering. But it was her eyes that truly unsettled. Her right eye shimmered with a chaotic blend of yellow and red, like molten gold bleeding into fire, while her left gleamed with an eerie, light-blinded blue—cold, distant, almost otherworldly.
The air around her felt lighter, yet the weight of death lingered—silent, suffocating. Bodies lay motionless where once there had been quiet chatter, their warmth fading into the cold night.
Yet here he was, discussing a date with the woman whose mere existence snuffed out lives like candle flames.
A special case, indeed.
For some reason, he was still breathing.
"I kinda want to do this, give me your hand."
Mister End lifted his hand slightly, a simple gesture, barely meaning anything. Yet, before he could react, Sarah's fingers curled around his wrist, guiding his hand toward her lips.
Without hesitation, she parted them and took his finger into her mouth, her tongue brushing against his skin as she suckled lightly. The warmth, the slow and deliberate motion—it was both unsettling and strangely intimate. Her mismatched eyes never left his, unreadable, challenging, amused.
The café was silent except for the faint sound of her lips, the lifeless bodies around them forgotten in this eerie, unexpected moment.
The old man sat hunched in the corner, his frail hands wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea. His breath was shallow, rattling in his chest, skin pale and paper-thin. The weight of years had already settled upon him, his body teetering on the edge of existence.
When Sarah arrived, death followed, snuffing out lives without effort. Yet, he remained. Unmoving. Unaffected.
Mister End glanced at him, then at Sarah. Her curse had no hold on him—not because he was strong, but because he was already at death's door. A soul too close to fading had nothing left for her to take.