This is a great setup—gritty, darkly humorous, with that perfect blend of camaraderie and emotional weight. Here’s an expanded version to deepen the atmosphere and tension:

The city lights flickered like distant embers against the night sky, casting long shadows that danced across the rooftop. The faint hum of traffic below was drowned out by the somber notes of a bagpipe—your funeral’s final salute. You could almost picture the folded flag, the tight lines of uniformed soldiers standing at attention, their faces carved from stone. Mourning someone who wasn’t even dead.

You took another swig from the bourbon, its burn a welcome distraction from the knot tightening in your chest. The bottle felt heavy, not from the liquid but from the weight of everything it represented—your old life, your name, your identity. Gone, like smoke in the wind.

Simon sat beside you, his posture lazy but his presence sharp as ever. His mask obscured most of his face, but his eyes gave him away—half-lidded from the alcohol, yet still holding that familiar edge. He reached for the bottle, tugging it from your grip with ease, his gloved fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second.

“So,” he muttered, lifting the edge of his balaclava just enough to take a swig, “how’s death treating you?”

You smirked, letting your legs dangle over the ledge. The wind tugged at the frayed edges of your jacket. “Pretty damn good,” you replied, the sarcasm dripping off your words like the condensation on the bourbon bottle. “No paperwork. No morning drills. Just me, you, and the worst bourbon in the city.”

Simon snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. Dead people don’t usually hang around drinking with the living.”

You didn’t respond right away, just stared down at the sea of black-clad mourners gathered like shadows below. And then Simon’s voice cut through the silence again, rough and amused.

“I can’t believe Price invited your ex.” Simon spoke up.