D.P.S: DEATH PREVENTION SQUAD (2024) JARROD A. FREEMAN

## Chapter One: The Last Deal In the city of Vesper, where shadows clung to brick walls like old regrets, time flowed with a deceptive rhythm. Life buzzed in vibrant colors: neon lights flickering against the night, the sound of distant laughter mixing with the whir of passing vehicles. But amidst the hustle and bustle, the unyielding presence of death loomed like a dark cloud, uninvited yet omnipresent. Tonight, that cloud settled heavily upon the Grand Lincolndale, a high-rise theatre where the nation’s most beloved icon, Jason Hart, was set to perform his last show. He had kept the city’s heart racing for over a decade, but soon, he would become a headline—just another tragic loss for the entertainment world. As the crowd gathered outside, hearts thumped with anticipation, unaware that death had already claimed him. Miles Easton stood under the arched entrance, the wind tugging playfully at his coat. He ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it in a futile attempt to shake off the weight of his profession. Though he had learned to master the art of the silver tongue, his own voice felt caught in his throat. His reputation as the best agent of the Death Prevention Squad (D.P.S.) had made him formidable, yet the shadows of his failures whispered ceaselessly in his ears. They called him the "Lifeguard of the Living," a title that felt more like a taunt than a badge of honor. He glanced at his watch—a gleaming piece that seemed to mock him, ticking down in rhythm with Jason’s fading life. Just ten minutes remained until the final curtain would fall. “Miles!” A gravelly voice pulled him from his thoughts. Serge, his mentor and the seasoned veteran of the D.P.S., appeared, his leathery face creased with lines that told tales of battles fought and lost. The neon light caught the edges of Serge's collar—practical yet worn, a testament to years spent at the mercy of others’ decisions. “Time's almost up,” Serge barked, concern mingling with the authoritative edge in his tone. “We don’t have the luxury of time.” “I know,” Miles replied, his voice scarcely above a whisper. He studied the ornate façade of the building, as if the bricks might yield some insight. “Have you any idea what he’s bargaining for?” Serge shrugged, his eyes narrowing with resignation. “Could be anything. Fame, fortune, a life without regret—his type always wants something more than just to live. We need to be ready for anything. He has to be reminded what he would truly lose.” Miles nodded, but beneath his confidence lay a tremor. They had faced desperate souls before, but negotiating with someone like Hart was another level entirely. The stakes were high; the Collector, the cryptic embodiment of Death itself, was watching, waiting for a deal to go sour, ready to claim his due. Inside the theatre, the tension hung thick in the air, electric with anticipation. Backstage, flanked by his team, Jason stood with a drink in hand, a pained smile plastered across his face. The audience waited, unaware that their idol teetered on the precipice of an unseen decision. “Let’s move,” Miles said, stepping into the dimly lit hallway that led to his destiny. The scent of sweat and burnt popcorn filled the air as they approached Jason's dressing room. Miles took a deep breath and adjusted his suit jacket, an instinctive act of confidence masking the tumult that brewed within. He pushed open the door, and the world behind it faded away—the glitz, the glamour, the applause—all drowned out by the reality of the room. Jason turned as they entered, his eyes a tempest of emotions. “You're here to save me?” he asked, a hint of disbelief lacing his voice. “I thought the D.P.S. would send someone more… corporate.” “Not corporate, just tactical,” Miles replied smoothly, masking the quiver in his gut. “You know we don’t just swoop in to save the day. We need to talk terms.” “A public hero,” Jason mused, shifting his grip on the glass, “or a private man? Fame is a heavy price.” With each word, it felt like the walls closed in, tightening around Miles’ chest. He could almost hear the Collector’s mocking laughter echoing in his mind. “This isn’t just about you, Jason. They’re counting on you. We’re all counting on you.” There it was—the crux of his plea. The weight of the audience outside, the hope and dreams of countless fans yearning for a glimpse of their idol. What would they do if he didn’t take the stage? What would he sacrifice not just for his life, but for theirs? The clock continued its cruel countdown, and Miles glanced at Serge, who stood with his arms crossed, watching intensely. Their lives rested precariously on the words exchanged in this fragile moment. Fate hung by a thread, a thread they needed to weave with care. “Tell me what you want for your life,” Miles requested, forcing the steel in his voice to quench the tide of anxiety. “You must understand the gravity of this deal.” Jason’s gaze drifted to the mirror, where reflection battled with self-admonition. “What if I offered you something bigger? Fame, a legacy etched in stone?” He leveled his gaze with sudden intensity. “Or the truth that a man like me deserves to succumb to his own hollow aspirations?” The darkness swelled in the corners of the room, and Miles could feel the collective breath of the raw urgency in his chest. “What do you want, Jason? Don’t barter away your essence without knowing the cost.” Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Jason tilted his head, his decision coiling tighter around them. Outside, the crowd began to chant—a low hum that echoed the heartbeat of the city, mingling with four simple words: “We are ready to live.” In that moment, with every eye in the theatre upon him, Jason faced the reflection of his life. Only time would tell which side of the bargain he would choose—and who would pay the price in the end. Miles steeled himself, waiting for the moment when the lines of mortality blurred and the dance with death commenced. **The deal began here, in the heart of the storm, where every heartbeat drew them closer to a truth none could escape.**