[Prologue: Narration]
"There once existed a man known only as the White Reaper. A living nightmare in a white coat. The mere whisper of his name sent shivers down the spines of even the most ruthless killers. Politicians, gangsters, soldiers, terrorists—none wanted to be on his list. For if you were… death had already come. He carried no rifles, no bazookas, no grand arsenal—only scalpels, small knives meant for doctors. He claimed it was 'cooler.' Yet those scalpels harvested more lives than entire armies."
"His name was Isaac Fareplay. A man not born, but made. The first true human created through science, a perfect body with scars as its testament. He was merciless, cheerful, terrifying, goofy, and kind. A contradiction. The world called him a monster. But to one old woman, he was simply a son."
"And then one day, the White Reaper retired."
[Scene 1: The Grocery Store]
The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical beep. The people in line turned their heads, their eyes drifting toward the tall, scruffy man who shuffled in with a plastic bag in one hand and messy hair sticking out in every direction. A patchy beard shadowed his jawline, and his faded hoodie looked two sizes too big.
The woman at the counter whispered to her friend, "That guy looks homeless…"
The cashier blinked as the man set down his items: an absurd number of instant noodle cups, ten cans of soda, and a single pack of scalpels.
The cashier hesitated. "Uh… sir? Why the… scalpels?"
The man grinned, showing sharp white teeth beneath the messy beard. His voice was oddly cheerful, even boyish, despite his towering six-foot-three frame. "What do you mean why? They're cooler than knives. Knives are too mainstream."
People shifted uncomfortably. A kid tugged on his mother's sleeve, whispering, "Mom, why does that man sound happy about… scalpels?"
The man scratched the back of his neck, humming as if he hadn't just said something deeply concerning. "Oh right, uh—receipt please. Need proof for my tax lady. Or else she'll skin me alive. Heh!"
The cashier gulped, sliding the receipt forward quickly.
Isaac Fareplay—once the White Reaper, now a lame-looking bearded man in sweatpants—cheerfully collected his bag and receipt. He hummed as he exited the store, oblivious to the trembling glances behind him.
[Scene 2: Isaac's Apartment]
His apartment was small. Too small for a man once feared by the world. Crates of instant noodles lined one corner, a weight bench another. The walls were cracked, peeling. A battered TV sat on the floor. And in the middle of it all, an elderly woman sat on a rocking chair, knitting.
"Welcome home, Isaac," she said softly, not looking up.
Isaac dropped his bags, puffing his chest out like a proud hunter returning with prey. "Behold, Mother! I've returned victorious from the battlefield! The battlefield… of supermarket discount day!"
The old woman chuckled. "You're ridiculous. You're supposed to be the strongest killer alive."
"Was, Mother. Was. Now I'm a regular citizen, supporting his mom by buying instant noodles and soda. What a noble life!" He struck a heroic pose, only for his sweatpants to slip down slightly, ruining the effect. His adoptive mother shook her head fondly.
[Scene 3: The Obelia Syndicate]
Across Lumindell, within a skyscraper fortress cloaked in black glass, Catherine De Algar Obelia sat upon her throne. At only twenty-five, she commanded an empire of crime, wealth, and blood. Black hair, black eyes, sharp features. Her beauty was undeniable, but so was the void behind her gaze.
She wore all black: suit, gloves, and her signature sunglasses. By her side leaned the Xyros Blade—a cursed sword said to harvest souls. No one questioned it. No one dared.
Her voice was flat, stripped of all humanity. "So… the White Reaper has been found."
Her subordinate knelt. "Yes, Boss. He has been living quietly. A nobody. But he still breathes."
Her lips curled slightly, not into a smile, but something colder. "Interesting. The monster plays house. Fetch him."
[Scene 4: The Encounter]
Isaac was sipping soda on his couch, humming a stupid tune, when the walls exploded inward.
Dust clouded the air as a dozen armed mercenaries stormed the room. Their leader shouted, "ISAAC FAREPLAY! THE WHITE REAPER!"
Isaac blinked, confused, as he set down his soda. "…Man, can't a guy drink in peace?"
He stood slowly, scratching his messy beard. The mercenaries trembled. Even disguised as a bum, the aura leaked—the terrifying, suffocating killing intent of the White Reaper.
Isaac yawned. "Alright. You broke my TV. That's a crime punishable by… scalpels."
Before they could react, he vanished.
A sound sharper than steel echoed. One by one, the mercenaries collapsed, their weapons dismantled, their bodies immobilized. Isaac twirled a scalpel between his fingers casually, smiling like a mischievous child.
From the dust, Catherine Obelia emerged. Her heels clicked against the ruined floor. Black sunglasses reflected his figure.
Isaac tilted his head. "…The heck are you supposed to be? Men in Black cosplay?"
She didn't answer. She simply stepped closer, her presence heavy, commanding. "You will become my bodyguard."
Isaac blinked. Then laughed so hard he doubled over. "PFFT—sorry, sorry. You? Ordering me? Lady, you know who I am, right?"
Catherine's face was unreadable. "The White Reaper. Strongest assassin. The man who killed empires. Yes. That is precisely why you will guard me."
Isaac scratched his beard. "Hmm. Tempting offer, but no thanks. I've got soda, noodles, and my mom. I'm living the dream."
Catherine's hand touched the hilt of the Xyros Blade. "If you refuse, I will force you."
For the first time, Isaac's playful smile froze. His eyes, hidden behind messy hair, gleamed. He stepped closer until he towered over her.
"…Lady. I don't respect anyone. Not kings, not syndicates, not gods. But I'll humor you with one warning: Point that sword at me, and you won't even have a soul left to curse."
The mercenaries behind Catherine shivered violently, their knees nearly buckling. The killing intent in that small room felt like the weight of continents.
Catherine, however, did not flinch. "Good. Then you'll be useful."
The tension broke. Isaac blinked, then laughed again, clapping his hands. "PFFT—ahh, damn. You're crazy. I like that. Fine. I'll be your bodyguard. But not because you ordered me."
"Then why?" she asked flatly.
He grinned wide, scarred face gleaming with mischief. "Because it sounds fun."
[Scene 5: Contract]
That night, Isaac stood in the Obelia Syndicate tower, still wearing his lame hoodie and sweatpants, looking entirely out of place among black-suited mafiosi. Catherine sat across from him, a glass of wine untouched.
"Your uniform?" she asked.
Isaac cracked his neck, tossing aside his hoodie. Beneath it, he wore his white overcoat, crisp white shirt, and white narie pants. A long-forgotten ghost reborn.
The White Reaper.
The room's atmosphere shifted. Even the bravest mafioso dared not breathe.
Catherine's sunglasses reflected his pristine white figure. "From this day forward, you are mine."
Isaac smirked, slipping on a pair of round black sunglasses to replace the old blindfold. "Nah. I'm not yours. I'm just… the White amongst your black."