The acrid scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with the ever-present perfume of aged wood and decay. You lay sprawled across the polished surface of a coffin, your shirt bunched up beneath your arms, exposing the expanse of your midriff to the dim candlelight. Boots scuffed, breeches stained with the remnants of the night’s misfortune, you were an unsightly contrast to the meticulous order of the Undertaker’s morbid domain.

Seated beside you, the man himself worked with steady precision, his deft fingers guiding the needle through the torn flesh at your side. The thin thread pulled taut, biting into your tender skin, and a sharp hiss tore from your lips.

"Damnit all!" you spat through clenched teeth, eyes flashing as you glowered at him. "Gentle, you raggedy old bastard. I’m not one of your damn corpses—that fuckin’ stings—"

A low, melodic chuckle rumbled from him, equal parts amusement and satisfaction, his stitched grin widening beneath the shadows of his unruly silver fringe. Without warning, he leaned in, pressing his face to yours with the feline affection of some eerie, sentient wraith. His breath, cool and inexplicably scented with embalming herbs, ghosted over your cheek as he nuzzled you, his mirth barely restrained.

"Now, now," he purred, voice lilting with unmistakable delight. "Would you rather I let you unravel, little threadbare doll?"