A Steal From Death

I was the greatest thief to ever live. And now the greatest to ever die. But it was on purpose: I've set my sights on stealing something from Death itself.

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I watched the grey pavement growing bigger and bigger and the last thing I saw was the silver glint of a scythe.

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He... he slowly put his fingers on my chin, ever so lightly grazing my jawline, making me to face him. It was unnatural, mad and terrifying. The Grim Reaper was not meant to touch a mortal. Death's touch sent shivers down my spine, made it hard to breathe and twisted my guts into painful knots. This was not right, I felt it, but couldn't be sure if he felt the same.
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(It's highly encouraged to read this story in one sitting to fully be immersed in it.)