He was fifteen when he met them. His hair was still that carefree blonde, and his eyes weren't jaded yet.

She was all sweet smiles and soft skin; he was all possessive growls and those painfully bright ruby eyes.

They were walking through downtown, oblivious to the curious eyes and the knowing whispers. Laced hands swinging between them and eyes bright with mirth, they wandered the streets with no direction.

He didn't know. Didn't know who they were or what they'd done.

He followed them, fingers itching at the chance to bury themselves deep within his deep pockets, her full purse.

Within a minute, he'd cornered them in an alley, backed them up to the wall. Voice gruff, his feeble attempt to disguise his age, he'd demanded they hand over their belongings

He'd missed it, the gleam in her eyes, the deepening of his smirk.

Idiot.

Another minute, he'd been pined to a brick wall, the gleaming blade of a scythe wedged uncomfortably close to his neck.

Years passed, he didn't see them again. But then he did.

He was nineteen now, they were in their mid twenties. They wandered the streets again, but their eyes were clouded now. Her stomach was round; he faced the ground.

The news broke the next day.

Death Scythe, Spirit Albarn, Killed in Action. Age 43. Successor listed as Soul Evans.

He didn't follow them that day.

He let them go.

Idiot.

He never saw them again.