Crimson Murders

Chapter One

Okay! So happy to have gotten a lot of positive reviews. This will be slightly dark, but it won't be on the spectrum of horror movie, gorey dark spectrum. Yes, this fanfic will deal a lot with some sensitive topics and some information will not be accurate and it's only adapted to fit the story and continue it on. I am so sorry for those parts in advance. 

He stares at the ground, gripping the straps of his backpack. He stares at the ground, ignoring the things that are in his peripheral vision. Although he wears black tinted sunglasses, that doesn't stop his peripheral vision screwing him over. He sees the shadows that hang onto people as they pass him by. He had to pick the one day that the sun doesn't show mercy to the recipients of its warmth. He can't wear his usual hoodie without basically burning to death. He ignores everyone and turns the corner into an alleyway, looking past the sunglasses and into the shadows. He cannot see him, but he can hear the raspy breathing that sounds like someone with nasal problems decided to run ten miles. The green eyes hidden behind the spectacles lands on a blurry, almost nonexistent figure. He stares with indifference, not even showing emotion when it speaks with a cold, raspy voice that reminds one of dragging a sandpaper over rock. "Take them . . . off, Cham—pi—on. Death hates. Need . . . them off. Take them . . . off."

  Izuku sighs and does as he's told. Before him stands a male wearing a cloak that shadows his face. A visible aura of purple and gold flares around him, bringing the sensation of cold. Dead like a cold that chills one to the bone. Drops of blood come from the sleeve, a pungent odor of decay fills the alleyway, mixing with the smell of hot, steamy garbage. If the teen wasn't used to revolting stenches, he would've heaved out his stomach (acid, food, and organ) right then and there. He knows that if the man is to rid himself of the black garment then he would see the rotting flesh that loosely hangs off the white bone. He never once ever thought he'd be in this man's presence, and maybe in another universe, he never is in this man's presence, maybe he never knows of him. If anyone who knows the kid, they'll be surprised by the fact that he actually listened. The only people he listens to is his mother and "Death, is there something you need from me?" A fourteen-year-old speaking to the embodiment of Death, how is this boy still alive and still sane? To stand in the mere eyesight of the Grim Reaper is a sentence to the afterlife.

  "Cham—pi—on, Death needs Cham—pi—on." The slow speaking of the psychopomp only irritates the young human. His patience thin with this specter; he keeps his mouth closed, knowing what happens if he's to disrespect him. He beholds the phantom of endings, waiting for him to speak what he needs to speak about and just needing to go on his way. This is the first time he's spoken to the Grim Reaper in so long. What was that poem someone made on the Grim Reaper? He can't remember, he's read too many of them to remember a specific poem. So many. So many on the Reaper. So many speaking of his deeds. One, he remembers, one said to not fear him for he is a friend and not a foe. Ha! His eyes are on the Reaper, who has many poems and stories from so long ago about and so many new poems and stories being written even now. "Ac—cept fate. Ac—cept . . . gift giv—en. Less te—rror. More po—wer—ful. He—ro. Cham—pi—on, be . . . he—ro, yes? This can help."

  Izuku is hesitant. Less terror? Does that mean, he won't be afraid if he accepts Death's offer? No, he isn't willing to do so. He can't do that. He doesn't trust him. "Yes, I want to be a hero. I can't—I don't know. Let me just think about it."

  The arm rises, the sleeve slips down revealing boney fingers. Three fingers up. Three fingers down on his skin. A skeletal hand tattoo is now on his wrist, three fingers up. It's a reminder, he notes, a reminder of Death's words. "Three . . . three times close to dy—ing. Cham—pi—on shall take . . . shall ac—cept gift. Force—fully. Pain—fully."

  Death's champion is thus left alone. He sighs, pressing a hand against his chest. A warm breeze picks up as he walks out, putting on his glasses and heading home. Three times? He makes it sound like he'll come close to dying more than once, that's absurd! Right? There's no way that he'll come close to dying. Then again, Death will always get what he wants no matter what stands in his way. He may just force it, but that'll go back on his promise that he made when he was younger. He looks up, staring at the bridge that suspends over the waters below. He sees someone there, standing on the edge and looking down. Sliding his glasses down, he sees the shadow.