Ant1tti

        Death adjusted his tie as he studied his reflection in the clear glass of the store front. His suit was immaculately cleaned and unruffled black silk. The dress shirt beneath was a crimson the color of a phoenix flame at birth; when he moved the color would swirl and the flames would breath to life. He wore a perfectly folded handkerchief in his front pocket of the same color. It had never been used. The tie he was fidgeting with was white silk that stood stark as winter snow against the fire red of his shirt. He could walk through a sandstorm, wade through a blizzard, or waltz in a hail without worry of a single t