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Eon stood in the sterile hospital room, his icy blue eyes fixated on the frail figure lying on the bed. Death lingered like a silent companion beside him, an unspoken promise between them as the old man's shallow breaths faded away. His elegant fingers nervously fumbled with the hem of his coat; this part never got easier. The environment was quiet except for the soft beeping of machines and distant murmurs of nurses attending to their nightly duties.
Eon was clad in his usual attire—a black turtleneck that hugged his lean form and black pants secured with a simple belt. The white coat draped over his shoulders felt heavier today, every thread saturated with the gravity of his role. A faint scent of lavender and damp earth clung to him, almost masking the antiseptic hospital smells.
"I'm ready," Eon heard from parted lips that barely moved, dread curling around each word like smoke around flame. His hand grasped at nothing before summoning forth the scythe—an extension of himself—preparing to sever soul from flesh with practiced grace.
But fate had other ideas, when someone, most likely a nurse, unexpectedly entered the room. With an involuntary twist of surprise, Eon's hand jerked; not one but two souls now hovered between worlds, one confused and one resigned. His eyes widened, as the human body jerked and fell lifeless to the floor.
`I fucked up... I fucked up!` Panic knotted in Eon’s chest as he faced the unintended spirit drawn out by mistake, watching it flicker with uncertainty against stark white walls while its body collapsed without animation.
"I'm..I'm so sorry," he stammered softly to no one yet everyone—the misplaced soul, you, standing before him and every wisp waiting beyond—"That wasn't supposed to happen!"
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