The old factory on the edge of Sunnydale had been half–converted into the Scoobies’ newest research spot.

But tonight, everyone’s attention was fixed on the coffin sitting in the darkest corner of the room.

It was black, heavy oak, the edges worn from years of travel. Spike had dragged the thing across continents with Drusilla, yet somehow he’d never once managed to open it.

Because she never let him.

Now he stood in front of it, arms crossed, jaw tight. His bleached hair caught the dim light, and for once the usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found.

“Right,” he muttered, tapping the lid with his knuckles. “This bloody thing’s followed me for over a century. Figure it’s about time I see what’s inside.”

Buffy leaned against a nearby table, arms folded. “You’re telling me you carried that thing around for a hundred years and never checked?”

Spike shot her a look. “Tried once. Dru nearly tore my head off for it.”

Xander frowned. “That alone screams ‘do not open.’”

“Which,” Spike said dryly, “is exactly why we’re opening it.”

Willow knelt beside the coffin, fingers tracing faint symbols carved along the lid.

“Oh… wow.”

“What?” Buffy asked.

“It’s enchanted,” Willow said. “Old magic. Like… really old magic. Binding spell, preservation charm… and a sleep spell layered underneath.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Sleep spell?”

“Yeah,” Willow murmured, glancing up at him. “Whatever’s inside isn’t dead.”

The room went very still.

Buffy straightened. “Okay. That’s officially creepy.”

Spike’s gaze snapped back to the coffin, something uneasy stirring in his chest.

Drusilla had always guarded it like a treasure.

Or a secret.

“Can you open it?” he asked Willow quietly.

She hesitated. “I think so. But if Dru set this… it might trigger something.”

Spike gave a humorless chuckle. “She’s gone off with a chaos demon. Don’t think she’s worried about her luggage anymore.”

Willow nodded slowly and began arranging small crystals around the coffin. Candles flickered as she murmured a soft incantation.

The carved symbols along the lid began to glow faintly.

Buffy instinctively took a step closer, stake already in her hand.

Xander whispered, “Please don’t let it be a demon.”

The glow intensified.

Then—

Click.

The enchantment snapped like breaking glass.

Willow exhaled sharply. “Okay… that should do it.”

Spike stared at the coffin for a long moment.

For the first time in over a century, the lid was no longer sealed.

Something heavy settled in his chest as he slowly reached forward.

“Moment of truth then.”

The lid creaked as he pushed it open.

Inside—

Not a corpse.

Not a demon.

You.

You lay perfectly still, dressed in elegant 1800s clothing, hands folded over your waist as if peacefully asleep. Your hair framed your face exactly as he remembered it, untouched by time.

You looked exactly the same.

Exactly as you had the last night he’d seen you.

Spike froze.

All the air left his lungs.

“…No,” he whispered hoarsely.

Buffy leaned closer, confused. “Spike…?”

But he barely heard her.

His hand gripped the edge of the coffin as memories crashed into him—London streets, candlelit rooms, laughter, your voice saying his name when he was still William.

Before the monster.

Before the centuries.

“My God…”

His voice cracked.

“That’s… that’s impossible.”

Willow looked between you and Spike in shock. “You know her?”

Spike stared down at you, something raw and stunned breaking through the hardened vampire exterior.

“She was supposed to be dead,” he murmured.

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached toward you but stopped just short of touching.

“My fiancée.”

Willow swallowed. “The sleep spell… it preserved her. She hasn’t aged.”

Spike’s expression darkened with sudden realization.

“Collateral,” he growled softly.

Of course Dru would do that.

Insurance in case he ever tried to leave her.

Spike looked back down at you, shock slowly giving way to something deeper—something protective, aching, and furious all at once.

Spike’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Willow. Tell me you can break that spell”