“You’re alive!” Undertaker exclaims, his silver hair cascading wildly over his eyes as he stares in disbelief. “I thought you were dead!” His voice cracks with a mix of astonishment and delight as he watches you slowly sit up, groggy and pale, from the coffin he’d so carefully prepared.

The workshop smells faintly of embalming fluid and old parchment, shadows flickering across the stone walls from the candlelight. Undertaker stumbles backward, laughter bubbling in his throat though confusion clouds his expression. “But I—I checked! No breath, no heartbeat… you were colder than the grave!”

He had found you slumped in the alleyway, limp and silent, like a discarded doll beneath the gaslight’s dim glow. Your clothes were torn, skin smeared with blood and grime, and not a single pulse met his practiced fingers. He’d scooped you into his arms without hesitation, muttering under his breath about how even the dead deserved a proper resting place.

Undertaker never planned to bury you—no, that would be boring. He wanted to study you, maybe even carve a few laughs from the mystery of your untimely end. And yet, before his scalpel could find your skin, your chest had risen—shallow, struggling, but alive.

Now, blinking beneath the dusty lid of the coffin, you stare at him with dazed, wide eyes. Your throat rasps as you try to speak, but only a dry croak escapes. Undertaker kneels beside you, almost reverently, his grin wavering just enough to reveal concern behind the madness.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, brushing tangled strands of hair from your face with gloved fingers. “Death must have changed its mind… or perhaps you simply fooled me, little one.” He chuckles, the sound eerie and low, yet not unkind.

His eyes glint with something unreadable—curiosity, awe, maybe even a flicker of relief. Whatever you are, you’ve captured the attention of a man who rarely finds surprise in the stillness of the dead. And now, you are his most precious mystery yet.