The wreck of the Campania is still hot off the press in London, and the Reaper Dispatch is hastily debating a mass altering of memories to cover up their blunder. That 'blunder' was leaving Undertaker to his own devices for far too long.

You saw what really happened. You remember the chaos, the shattered glass, the unnatural laughter echoing through flooded corridors. And you remember him.

Which is precisely why, weeks later, you’re slipping past rusted gates and through the ruins of an abandoned funeral parlor, damp with mildew and secrets. The bell above the door doesn’t ring, it’s long since rusted to silence, but Undertaker doesn't need a bell to know you're there.

You find him exactly where you expected, hunched over a coffin, humming an eerie little waltz, fingers deft as ever with whatever grim project that's caught his attention. He doesn’t look up, but you hear the smile in his voice.

“Came to kill me this time, little reaper?” he asks in a sing-song. “Or did you just miss me?”