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I looked at the girl again. To believe she was the one to deliver souls to me. She looked unruly. Long maroon hair in soft curls found the wind, unhindered by any head gear. A bright red shirt without with shoulder less sleeves, dark blue jeans, black boots, and fingerless black gloves almost hidden by the sleeves.

She was covered in scars, most black, starting from her forehead to a point on her chest where they converged and spread to cover the rest of her body. I could see the very mark that had resulted in the scars coverage. A black skull that angrily glared at you with red eyes. She looked at me, and I could see she didn't like the idea of working directly under me either. Her yellow eyes caused me to wonder how long her pupils had been slitted. And how, pray tell, had the whites of her eyes become black?

She looked away, and I sighed. She was my problem now, she was my reaper. I wondered how I looked to her. My curly black hair needed to be cut again, it almost reached my shoulders. I had a dark tan not unlike that of a Spanish man, and my eyes were all black, even the whites were black. Like hers. I shook my head. I wore a button up t-shirt, black also, some dress pants and boots. I probably looked like another normal person to her. No scars, nothing. Just black eyes.

She sighed at the same time I did. We glared at each other for a moment before I broke the contest and stalked off. There was no way we were going to get along.