Chapter 1: Not Quite Right in the Head
"Do you know that the average life expectancy of our profession is 23 years?" The tattooed bald man asked.
"How old are you, then?" Azrael replied without lifting his gaze. Hands moving in steady, repeating motions as he sharpened the blade of his scythe.
"Twenty-three."
The man sneered. "But I plan on going against the status quo."
"Admirable," Azrael nodded, not commenting further. He remained focused on his task. Judging by the way the man who kept bothering him looked, he decided to call him Tattoo from now on.
"What’s the point of sharpening it so much? After a while, it’ll just start doing more harm than good, no?" Tattoo questioned, clearly bored.
"The first strike is always the most important," Azrael replied, his hands never once slowing.
"Whether it’s a surprise attack or a desperate defense, battles fought with fragile mortal bodies like ours are often decided in an instant. I’m just reducing the ways I can lose."
With a scoff, the man waved dismissively. There was no point in talking to the kid anymore. Just from the sharp edge in his voice and the unsettling look in his eyes, it was clear he wasn’t quite right in the head.
The silence in the back of the transport vehicle lasted for several minutes, broken only by the occasional crunch of debris beneath the wheels and the inhuman cries echoing beyond the thin veil of safety the vehicle provided.
"Done," Azrael sighed, inspecting the blade from multiple angles. This was as sharp as a cheap weapon like this could get.
As if on cue, a stern voice called out from the driver’s seat, "We’ve arrived at the destination. Remember: your job is to collect the bodies. If you think you can take down any monsters, don’t. It’s not worth the risk."