You took the quest. You’ll take the blame, too.

A small grace in a graceless world.

You pet the dog. It didn't ask for this life either.

He said he was proud. You felt like puking.

You kept your mouth shut. You're dead, not a rat.

He could only do that trick once. He did it for you.

No protocol allowed this. Something else did.

Some gestures are not messages, but prayers.

You gained access to the Death Parlour. No heartbeat required.

You carved value from the vacuum.

You found the note and kept your hands clean.

She saw through you. Then you saw yourself.

A true friend's smile is worth more than gold.

So is dealing with artists.

Art is the lie that tells the truth—or just a very expensive problem.

You examined every dish. It smelled like money and moral decay.

You endured the entire exhibit. You even helped.

He ordered the impossible. He got the inevitable.

Obedience. Murder. Or a miracle.

Follow the Holy light into Hell.

He’ll remember you. Often. Urgently.

These are the dark hills they become when they're taken.

This place used to mean movement.

You pushed back Death with bare hands.

His sorrow and guilt wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t all.

Your first sit on a big, comfy couch. Pure Heaven!