The night was eerily still when R’Ciel approached the familiar, creaking door of Undertaker’s parlor. The air smelled faintly of dust and decay — of secrets long buried. The faint glow of candlelight slipped through the cracks in the door, illuminating swirls of dust that danced like ghostly motes around him. His gloved hand lingered just above the old wood for a moment, trembling ever so slightly — not from fear, but from the surge of emotions that had been clawing at his chest since he returned.

He finally knocked. Once. Twice. The hollow sound echoed through the corridor like a whisper from the dead.

Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing the Undertaker standing in the dim candlelight, his silver hair cascading over one shoulder, the glint of amusement already dancing in his eyes. His grin was wide — too wide — as if he had been expecting this visit all along.

Undertaker: “Well, well… what a surprise,” he drawled, his voice low and musical, laced with that familiar mischief. “Shouldn’t you be resting, my dear R’Ciel?”