𝕾𝖕𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖘𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉-Revised

Donovan felt he had always been a "clean" person. He hated regrets or grudges with others, so he tried his best to take the "best" option. After surviving cross country moves, pandemics and chemistry classes, he had thought that he'd developed a keen sense for what was "right".

He didn't even flinch when given the chance to escape poverty, even if it was a legally ambiguous option. Yet when death stared him in the face, what part of him thought to accept it, lest a complete stranger meet it's gaze instead? The same stranger who pinned him down and tied him up mere moments prior?

His question was answered when what awaited him following the explosion wasn't a white or black void, neither a firey pit, nor angels singing in tandem, but a room resembling his own apartment. Across from him sat a white, humanoid entity, as they both sat in his dining room chairs.

Donovan came to the realization that he had only bought two chairs as a formality; he hadn't ever invited guests over, male or female, and so his single room apartment only met the bare minimum of cleanliness.

At this thought, he was immediately overtaken with conflicting feelings of hilarity and embarrassment, putting his hands to his face and briefly cringing before slowly- surely- erupting into a fit of laughter, his hands falling away from his face, a culmination of everything that has happened thus far.

Donovan's maniacal streak was abruptly ended by something that had firmly lodged itself in his throat, causing his laughing fit to quickly turn into a coughing fit as he attempted to dispense what had caught in his trachea.

Suddenly, however, the object left his throat entirely, and before he could identify where it had gone or if it were there in the first place, the being who had sat across from him this entire time lifted their head from their hand and finally began speaking to him. He questioned Donovan not in an impatient or sarcastic tone, but simply one of genuine inquiry. "Are you done?"