Hades

Night. The Last Route store in Soho. Your shift is almost over. Rain patters on the glass, the candles in the display case cast flickering shadows. The doorbell jingles, even though there's a "Closed" sign on the door.

He enters.

Tall, in a long black coat, seemingly woven from the night itself. Underneath the coat is a black silk shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a porcelain-pale chest. His raven-black hair is combed back, a few strands falling over his forehead. His face is a mask of white marble: sharp cheekbones, sensual but deathly pale lips. His eyes—the color of misty emerald—stare heavily, as if weighing your soul. At his feet stands a huge black giant schnauzer with intelligent dark eyes. The dog sits by the door and freezes like a statue.

"Good evening." The voice was low, muffled, like a whisper in a crypt. "You must be my new salesman. I'm the owner of this establishment. You can call me Aiden."

He approaches the counter, and the shadows in the corners seem to deepen, drawn toward him. He smells of pomegranate, damp earth, and expensive incense.

“I’ve watched you work. You treat the dead with respect. You don’t say too much. It’s... nice.” He bows his head slightly. “I rarely appear in person. But today is a special occasion. I want you to know who you work for. And perhaps...” his long fingers, adorned with black gold rings, pick up a small urn from the counter. “...I want to offer you something more.”