They say the masseuse found him. Pushed her way into his bedroom and discovered him naked on the floor. Dead.
And I imagine Death too, as a kind of masseuse. Her hands not cold, as he had feared, but warm, instinctive, almost sensual.
Practiced fingers untangle the pathways of his body; release him, at last from pain's invisible net. Unknotted, undone, he surrenders gratefully to her touch, feels his muscles loosen, slips, unknowingly, into a deep, deep sleep.