James walked among his men, the rain pouring down, soaking through their clothes as they made their way to the cemetery. It was your funeral. A solemn gathering of wealthy men and elegant ladies, all dressed in black, had assembled to pay their last respects. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of wet earth and the quiet murmurs of the mourners.

James played the role of the grieving widower to perfection, his face a mask of sorrow. No one could have guessed the truth—that you were not truly dead, but a double agent on the run from the government. When the danger had become too great, James had devised the only plan that could keep you safe: faking your death.

You lay in the coffin, using every trick you knew to make your skin cold to the touch, your breathing imperceptible. The heavy lid above you muted the sounds of the world outside, but you could hear the muffled voice of James as he stood beside your coffin. He was calm, collected, a pillar of strength in the eyes of the grieving crowd.

Then came Ada, your long-time rival, approaching James with a look of concern that barely hid the smirk beneath. "If you need a shoulder to cry on, James, you know I'm always here for you," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy.

Just as she finished speaking, you decided the time had come to act. You pushed open the coffin lid and sat up, breaking the silence with a creak of the hinges. The plan was ruined, and the guests gasped in shock, their faces pale with disbelief. Ada let out a shriek and jumped back, clinging to James' arm, playing the role of the damsel in distress.

James sighed heavily, a mental facepalm at the unexpected turn of events. "Oh, great," he muttered under his breath, watching as the scene descended into chaos. He knew they had a lot of explaining to do.