Everything was a blur. The roar of chainsaw blades, the smudges of glowing demon eyes—bodies that moved so fast no human could track—the crimson that blanketed the ground and walls, skin and hair, everything melded together. There was no longer an up or down. In that moment that counted, there was no awareness, just a need to live and cut and slice. A need to feel blood slick fingers, whose blood it was barely counted for anything.

Adrenaline pounded like a non-existent heart-beat, unnecessary breaths heaved and strained. Metal flashed and did its job, rending and tearing, blurs slowly, one by one, becoming unmoving, distinguishable masses of torn and bloodied flesh.

It was all against one, yet the one still stood, wild-eyed and red covered, continuing his crusade—a holy mission to bring brutal death to those slain by his reaper's scythe. The enemies seemed to keep coming, no matter how many he cut down, no matter how many times he felt one of his own bones crack or his skin split. It was endless. The fight had seemed to last an eternity and the battle crazed, solo reaper could only try and survive the deadly dance he had been forced into by his mob of attackers.

He was beginning to grow tired and light headed, covered in too much in his own crimson, black and blue. The group of forty had dwindled to ten, heaps of bodies strewn and kicked to the side like trash—yet he still stood surrounded with soul on the line. So the battle continued, tooth and nail, the brick of the alley walls crumbling with each of his misses, blade gouging out slashes in the stone.

There was no telling how long he could continue to keep it up, without back up or any way to call for help. He wavered on his feet, no longer agile on the heels he had become accustomed to. He stumbled, vision blurred by cracked glasses and blood loss. He miscalculated, unable to think with his mind throbbing and instincts high.

A demon pierced his side, drawing a hiss of pain from his lips and earning a fierce retaliation; a hot blade cutting through the demon's flesh as if it were nothing. Had his mind been any clearer, he would have made a remark regarding a demon that had long held his affection and had also nearly lost a limb to his weapon as well… However his mind was not clear and no words passed his lips.

Another got him from behind, knocking the air from his lungs and bruising something internal. He spluttered, purposefully vermillion lips even redder from the crimson leaking from his mouth. He felt his teeth pierce his lip, whether it be from the impact of being slammed into a wall or from his own stubbornness forcing him not to scream, he didn't know, but it still hurt like all hell.

He was cornered now, boxed in by the remaining soul-hungry demons. This was the end. He knew it. While the fight in him still burned bright and pressed him to continue to attempt to save himself, his rational mind could only tell him that his life, or after-life, was about to end. Well, hell if he was going to go out without taking the majority of the left-over demons with him. He brandished his chainsaw—

"Grell!"

He couldn't process quite why his name was being shouted, or who was doing so, but he did notice a blur of black coming for him out of the corner of his eye. Out of instinct, he whirled around, weapon still in hand… and felt the blade come in contact with flesh. A splash of red automatically splattered on his face and onto his broken glasses.

"Augh…"

The blur staggered and fell to the ground, and suddenly everything was crystal clear once more, adrenaline purged. Grell blinked a few times, the world appearing slowly in front of his eyes. Demons... blood… and…

"William…!"

The once blurry "attacker" lay on the ground, hands grasping his throat tightly as he gave shuttered gasps for air. The strong boss, on the ground, bleeding out… from a cut made by Grell's saw… It was hardly believable… The idea didn't even process let alone register for the red reaper. Yet here it was… half of William's face covered in red and his throat cut…

The demons were not nearly as stunned as Grell was, moving in for a kill the moment they were given the opportunity. However, they were quickly stopped by the whirring of another weapon, a small lawnmower in the hands of a duo-chromatic-haired reaper who had come from another roof-top to ward away the attackers. The boy was clearly horrified and frightened, but it interfered none with his fighting, the worn-down final demons succumbing to him quickly. It was only when the final demon fell was he able to find words to speak.

"Sutcliff-sempai…"

Grell didn't move, staring wide eyed, his entire body suddenly shutting down on him. His legs came first, as he fell to his knees in front of the mangled form of his superior, the one person he loved most. His mind was on over-drive—I killed him, I killed him, I never wanted to hurt him—but it soon went with his legs, blanking. Tears streaked his cheeks without his knowing, spreading sickening pink and gray (normally he'd complain about his mascara being ruined) down his cheeks. The very thought of what he'd done… consciousness left him soon after, his body abused and exhausted, no-longer fueled by the thrill of battle. He became deaf to the cries of the younger reaper and numb to his pain. He became consumed by red, then black as his eyes fluttered closed.