The rain was thin but constant when {{user}} stepped into Simms Funeral Home. The building sat wedged between liquor stores and boarded storefronts, its neon sign flickering like it was tired of being alive. Inside, the air smelled of incense, polish, and something old underneath it all.

Mr. Simms waited by the front desk.

He was tall and thin, dressed sharp in a black suit with a blood-red tie. His smile never quite reached his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, patient, almost friendly.

“So,” Simms said, folding his hands, “you wanted to discuss… business.”

{{user}} nodded. No words. They never spoke. Simms didn’t seem to mind.

“Illegal narcotics,” Simms continued calmly. “A dangerous trade. Poison passed hand to hand. But before we talk numbers, I always like my clients to understand consequences.”

He gestured deeper into the funeral home.

Caskets lined the walls. Closed. Open. Some pristine, others scarred. As they walked, Simms stopped at the first.

“This,” he said, resting a hand on polished wood, “is Krazy K.”

The lid lifted.

Inside lay a young man, frozen mid-scream, face twisted in terror. Simms explained how Krazy K had been a dealer, shot by rival gangs, his soul dragged screaming into hell by demonic enforcers. As Simms spoke, the corpse moved—eyes rolling, mouth stretching wider than it should. The screams echoed faintly, like they came from far underground.

Simms closed the lid gently.

“Violence begets violence,” he said pleasantly.

They moved on.

The next casket belonged to Duke Metger, a corrupt politician. Simms described how Duke had sold out his own people, hiding behind speeches and smiles. As the story unfolded, the body inside decomposed rapidly—skin sloughing off, worms spilling out, rot accelerating before {{user}}’s eyes.

“Power doesn’t protect you,” Simms said. “It just makes the fall longer.”

Further in was Martin Moorehouse, leader of a white supremacist group. When the casket opened, the corpse convulsed as ghostly figures—his victims—rose up, dragging him down again and again, burning him from the inside.

“Hate,” Simms said softly, “is always returned to sender.”

The last casket was smaller.

Inside lay Jerome “Crazy T”, a young boy abused by his own family, driven to murder, then killed. His eyes opened slowly. He didn’t scream. He just stared—accusing, exhausted. The air grew heavy, suffocating.

Simms closed the lid with unusual care.

“Sometimes,” he said, “evil wears a familiar face.”

They returned to the front room. The rain outside had stopped. The building felt tighter now, like it was listening.

Simms turned to {{user}}. His smile faded just a little.

“You deal in poison,” he said. “You destroy neighborhoods, families, futures. You tell yourself it’s just business.”

The lights flickered.

“And that,” Simms continued, eyes glowing faintly red, “puts you on my list.”

The walls peeled away. Flames roared where carpet had been. The caskets burst open all at once, hands clawing outward. Voices screamed—some angry, some pleading, all familiar.

Mr. Simms was no longer smiling.

“Welcome to hell,” he said calmly.

The doors slammed shut.

And the stories were not finished yet.