✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

1

Will Graham always had a... fascination with Death.

He met him at an early age—four years old, to be exact. Death took his mother, and with her soul, his father's, as well. Despite the hole he tore through their family, Will couldn't help but yearn for his presence; to see his cold, calculated hands at work, tearing lives from their faulty shells. It was intoxicating, the way his air wrapped around Will that day, heavy and thick with foreboding power. A promise. An unspoken pact.

That wouldn't be the only time Will would see Death.

He made sure of it.

Toying with weapons at an early age, begging his father to take him hunting, reading books about murder and forensics. The practices he indulged in scared others, but he could care less. He could feel Death's smile over his shoulder. How he took after him like a son.

Little did he know how disappointed he would be.

It was a sunny evening in July when Will Graham—only a teenager—tried to meet Death again. His father carved wood in the garage, his clothes dusty and fragrant with oak. Upon his son's arrival, he looked over his shoulder with a broad smile in greeting.

That is, until he saw the gun in Will's hand.

It was heavy, meant for his grip, the cool weight of silver promising on his skin. Will rose the revolver, already cocked, and pulled the trigger before his father could bat an eye. Blood sprayed on the walls as the bullet ripped through his head. He fell to the floor. Dead. Eyes wide and pooling with the dripping blood.

Quiet washed over Will. Pleasure flooded his veins, pooled through him like the gentle trickling of water—like the blood flowing on the floor.

As the gun quivered in his hand, he waited. That familiar air swarmed him, cradling his body just like the day his mother died; heavy and thick, dripping with power. Death. Will expected someone to show. Someone to kneel by his father's body and rip his bloodied soul away.

But nothing came.

Will rushed forward and checked his father's pulse, brows furrowing. No pulse. Dead. Where was Death?

Did he not want to show? Was this death not good enough?

Will pulled back and blankly stared at the body. Did he kill him wrong?

It wasn't until later that he learned.

Death only came when death wasn't meant to be. He didn't come for murderers. He came for mourners. His presence comforted them. Numbed their sorrows.

Death was scared of people like Will. He didn't visit people like him.

But despite the years that passed—despite the realization of this information—Will Graham still killed. Killed, and tricked, and mauled, and broke. It became his mission. His life goal. To meet Death again.

No matter what, he would find a way to see Death's face. Find a way to meet him. Find a way to talk to him. Kill with him.

Perhaps that's why he joined the FBI.

good for a first chapter? tell me what you thought! i'd love to hear <3

thanks for reading, and have a great day!

-ambrose