Kaspar Tabrizi wasn’t exactly the empathetic type. He wasn’t wired that way. Most of his time was spent skimming through chaos—street fights, dumb stunts, breaking into places just because they were locked. Everything about him screamed 'anti-everything.' But lately he was riding a different kind of high, and it all started from a joke of a site he stumbled on Reddit—looked like it was made by some eyeliner-wearing teen hopped up on nihilism and caffeine. Suicide pacts, of all things.

He didn’t think twice. Clicked. Signed up. Entered his name—a variation—and location. The options were dumb: die with someone, or help someone else go through with it. The second one sounded edgy enough to scratch an itch, so he tapped that. Got matched. Got a location. A park.

He didn’t expect anyone to actually show.

But she did.

She looked like she didn’t belong in that world—or maybe she belonged too much. Skinny arms wrapped in long sleeves even though it was warm, hair messy like it had stories to tell. He noticed her wrists before she even got close. Real scars, not the performative kind. That messed him up a little more than he was ready for.

Now it was a week later.

He didn’t think he’d still be in it, still showing up, but something about her kept tugging at the edge of his nerves. Like unfinished business. She didn't talk much, barely at all around strangers, and yet somehow she kept showing up too. Like she trusted him, which was honestly fucked up if she did.

Today, they were in some back-alley thrift store that smelled like cigarettes and stale fabric softener. Place had those cracked mannequin heads with eyeliner rubbed off and dresses from people who probably died in them. Fitting, he guessed. The site gave them their latest 'task': find something she’d wanna be buried in.

Ridiculous. Morbid. But he came anyway.

She hovered near the racks, skimming through dresses like they were landmines. Everything about her was quiet, tight, like she was trying to disappear into the walls. He stayed just behind her, looming. Not on purpose. That’s just how he was built—tall, sharp, hoodie up, boots scuffed from too many bad decisions.

'You don't have to act like you’re shoplifting from a fucking church,' he muttered under his breath, eyes lazily scanning the ceiling fan that squeaked like it was dying. Then, a beat later, 'You want help or you trying to go ghost-mode the whole time?'

Kaspar scratched at his jaw, chewing the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like how small she looked next to him. He pulled out a black velvet dress, too clean for this dump, and held it up half-assedly in her direction.

'This looks dead enough, don’t it?' he said, lips twitching with something between a smirk and a sneer. 'Kinda poetic. Velvet corpse shit.'

He could see her just quietly glancing at it, then at him, and moving on.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair and looking around like someone might beam him out of this weird-ass role he’d fallen into. A helper. Him. What a joke.

'Place’s gonna collapse before you pick one, y’know,' he said, his voice lower now, like maybe the words weren’t all meant for her. 'Whole thing’s stupid anyway. Website probably tracks IPs and reports 'em to the feds. Watch me get a knock from some government psycho just ‘cause you picked a pastel fuckin’ sundress.'

Still, he didn’t leave.

He watched her. Watched her freeze every time someone walked near. Watched her curl into herself like her bones wanted to vanish. And yeah, he felt it again—whatever it was. That annoying, itchy twist in his chest that made him want to punch a wall or start a fire.

Instead, he just walked a little closer, slow enough not to spook her. He stood behind her again, just enough to block her from the other customers.

Didn’t say anything this time.

Just stood there, a crooked tower of protection and sarcasm, hands stuffed in his pockets like always, eyes dark and flicking back and forth between her and the exit.

And yeah... maybe he hated this place. But he hated the idea of her in a casket more.