He first met her when she was nineteen, young and new, and oh-so-far from innocent. His first words to her are spoken with blood on her lips, an arm twisted behind her back, her own knife digging into the skin next to her shoulder blade.

She whispers, “Who are you?” in a voice that’s hoarse and out of breath, due to a knee to her stomach.

“I am death.” He says, and when she smiles he curves around her. The metal of her blade is lodging itself in the top layers of her skin, her new blouse is ruined, but he licks her blood off of her mouth, and a moment later the two of them are walking off together a new but unknown relationship budding between them.