Since the beginning… I've existed.
Before breath. Before light. Before names.
I am not born. I was never created.
I simply am.
They call me Death.
The Reaper.
A shadow that walks between the ticking of clocks.
Spirits speak of me in hushed tones.
Fallen angels avert their gaze.
God marked me. The Devil cursed me.
Neither own me.
I was there when Abel's blood hit the soil.
He called for his father—
I answered.
And I've answered every call since.
I have seen what humans do when they think no one is watching.
I've watched empires rise just to burn beneath their own cruelty.
I do not judge.
I do not forgive.
I only take.
I don't wear a crown. I wear silence.
I don't carry a scythe. I carry the weight of it all.
There is no Heaven without me.
No Hell without my hand.
And between both—
where no light shines, no mercy breathes—
That's where I stand.
I am the Rift.
The thing between worlds.
And I am so very tired of being feared by the living…
…and worshiped by the dead.
So…
I'm not the bad guy.
I'm just Death.
Plain.
Simple.
Ugly.
You die, I show up.
That's how it's always been.
I don't smile. I don't cry. I don't ask if you're ready—
because you never are.
I don't bargain.
I don't grant wishes.
You want a miracle?
Find a god who's still listening.
I've shown sympathy… once or twice.
A mother gripping her newborn.
A soldier who didn't even realize his leg was gone.
But even then—
I took them.
Mercy's not my job.
I carry silence, not salvation.
Now and then, a soul goes smooth.
Light opens. They walk. Done.
But most?
Most get stupid.
They run.
Hide.
Cling to their old skin like maggots in a warm corpse.
That's when I hunt.
I drag them out from the places no priest can reach—
under beds soaked in rot,
motels humming with overdoses,
streets still wet with warm blood.
They fight.
They scream.
They beg.
And I don't blink.
And then…
there's the real filth.
The demons.
Lucifer's little bastards.
Slipping through cracks like roaches with knives.
Possessing dogs, kids, old men—
anything dumb or weak enough to leave the door unlocked.
I clean them up.
Not because I care.
Because it's my job.
Hell can't leash them. Heaven won't.
So it falls to me—
like everything else.
It's like babysitting a pack of rabid wolves with human faces.
They laugh. Spit scripture in reverse.
Call me names they shouldn't know.
And the worst part?
They slow me down.
And I hate being slowed down.
Fast forward.
The year's 2025.
Skyscrapers, LED halos, concrete jungles and handheld gods.
The world evolved—
but death didn't.
I still walk.
Still collect.
Still clean up the mess no one sees.
Spirits still know my name.
They whisper it in alley shadows, in graveyard winds, behind the hum of hospital machines.
They know what I am.
They remember.
But people?
People see a man in a black coat.
Headphones in. Eyes cold.
A face they'd forget five minutes later.
I blend in.
Crowds move around me.
No one suspects a thing.
Just another guy with boots worn down by the dead and a phone that never rings.
But here's the truth:
Death doesn't knock.
It walks in like it owns the place.
Because it does.
I am now known as Adam Doore Rift.
The most respected when it has to deal with the supernatural…
but feared by both angels and demons—
and any spirit dumb enough to stick their nose where it shouldn't.
And I am the RIFT between these worlds.