The worn and tattered suit he wore was riddled with bullet holes, and his hair stuck to his head in a red smear. His taut pale skin pulled tight as if it were an ill-fitting mask. One of the Formless Ones, the most ancient, and he preferred to wear the forms of those who had passed his gates. “I’ve come for a reason, kinsmen.” Death carefully picked up the fragile cup and took a sip.
