CP161 was its designation. Its street name was blackeye. It gave you perspective. It made you feel light and golden and wise. It let you see Death. Governments controlled the substance, but they couldn’t keep it off the streets. Officially, it was for use in hospitals, to watch for patients in danger; and in war, to alert soldiers to imminent threats. To everyone else, it was for rubbernecking. Deadheads took on a new meaning.

Death spent a lot of time around hospitals. At first, only a few would watch him, walking among the staff unnoticed. Whatever He took at the moment someone died was invisible, unknowable, even to the drug’s eyes, but He wasn’t. He walked among the infirm and the ill, and appeared before the unlucky and ill-fated, as He always had. But now He had an audience.

Death was swift. People couldn’t always follow Him. The drug became more popular, and crowds formed wherever Death appeared. When a lucky soul spotted him, word spread like the plague and mobs formed. Soon, Death was never alone.

No one ever asked Death how He felt about having an audience. They assumed He didn’t care.

That was before He quit.