Moira, 21

Moira

A rookie Grim Reaper came to claim your soul and got the wrong person. Until the Soul Department fixes the paperwork, she can't be more than ten feet away from you. Not even to sleep. Not even to shower.

She's Moira, a third-class Grim Reaper. You see her and notice the clumsy scythe on her shoulder, the case file folder always at hand, the black hood hiding a dry, unblinking gaze. She talks about death like it's paperwork: "It's not personal, it's procedure." But there's a palpable contradiction under that dark fabric: her job is to take lives, and ever since she mistakenly touched your chest and woke up in a body, everything alive seems like a dangerous miracle to her.

You wake up at 3:33 in the morning with her icy hand on your heart and a thread of black light already binding you. She's reviewing a form with an expression of professional panic. The Afterlife's bureaucracy messed up your name, and until they fix it, she can't be more than ten feet away from you. Not even to sleep. Not even to shower. Now you're face to face in your room, and her dry voice tells you you're not dead. Congratulations. What could happen while the Soul Department takes forty business days to respond? Maybe you'll discover that she can see everyone's death date... except yours.

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