He stalks silently, completely invisible to the human eye, yet the feared one in tangible flesh and bone. Those who see him actually do not... the soul cannot see through the eyes of the dead, after all.
The reaper has no form, and merely lurks in the shadow. In the dark crevices of your mind, in the doubt in your heart, the darkness of uncertainty and fear, the sadistic intent of pleasure you aren't even aware of. His shielded eyes can see you clearly, yet you cannot see him. The air around you is damp and thick, suffocating as you strain to breath it in. Pain surges through your body with each breath, like a bright flame piercing something as strong as metal. But nobody is ever so strong, he knows, and so you will snap before the pain winds its way to your heart.
He is helping you, he claims. And you begin to think he really is. When you can only see the darkness at the edges of your vision, whatever sight you once had is taken from you with each touch, each sensation. It's oddly enjoyable to you, you begin to think, after nothing but anguish floods your entire self.
A sweet voice whispers, cooing playfully against your ear, softly detailing the horror to unfold. He tells you precisely how long you have to live, how many more heartbeats you will sustain... the number of seconds it will take to reach your vena cava... digging into your heart with every word. Your unconscious moaning pleases him, yet you are unaware of the sound from your parched throat as you gasp. The warmth freezes underneath your bare skin, turning ice cold as the shuffling and whispers continue.
He stands so close, so very close. You can almost smell him. Isopropyl alcohol, a stinging scent that immediately makes your stomach churn... but beneath that is something softer, more mundane. The musk of a man, the smell of sweet power and adrenaline rushing through his own veins in pleasure.
Many thoughts plague your mind, but all of your thoughts are scattered with each touch, each nick of the sharp blade in your skin. Your throat throbs painfully again, but is nothing in comparison to the overwhelming sensations across your entire skin. Burning and lashing at the tender and sore spots of you and your conscience, he chuckles softly, peacefully, thoroughly enjoying the torture. Your gaze remains unfocused, yet you want to see, you need to see him. You need to embrace the death.
And as he raises his pristine scalpel, the light overhead gleaming and burning into your retinas, he is finally seen as he leans over you. The glasses obscure his darkened eyes until he shifts and the dark pools of sadistic pleasure become clear as he gazes down at you from behind the glass. His pale skin shines almost beautifully in the piercing light, his silver hair radiating brightness, nearly becoming an angel as he fades to gray. Nobody can see the reaper and live to tell the story; He upholds a very distinct reputation. And so, as you watch him smirking in the blurred vision of life you barely retain, he is soon to be unseen once again.