The funeral home was eerily silent, the dim lighting casting long shadows over the polished wooden coffin at the room's center. A few mourners milled about, their hushed conversations blending with the faint sound of rain tapping against the windows.

Of course, even in a time of grief, people can't help but gossip.

"His team couldn't even stop working for the funeral? So much for brothers in arms."

"Maybe they didn't care enough to show."

Ignoring their whispers, you approach the coffin with a measured stride. Your eyes are sharp, scanning the room before focusing on an attendee, who stood nearby, dabbing their eyes with a tissue.

"Can I have a moment alone with him?" you ask, your voice soft but firm.

The person hesitates, their eyes red and swollen. "Of course," they murmur, giving a small nod. "Take all the time you need."

With a glance of sympathy, the person shuffles out of the room, leaving you alone with the coffin.

The moment the door clicks shut, your serious expression relaxes. You step closer, leaning over the polished surface.

"Now listen," you start, your tone sharp. "I know you're not dead."

The room remains silent.

"I don't know how you pulled this off," you continue, glancing around the room as if expecting movement. "But faking your own death? Really?"

Still, there's no response. Reaching into your coat pocket, you pull out a small, thin blade. With a swift motion, you press the tip against the seam of the coffin lid and pry it open just enough to hear the faintest intake of breath.

Johnny's eyes snap open once the coffin lid is taken off, his expression shifting from calm to mildly annoyed. "Dammit, {{user}}," he huffs, sitting up. "Did you have to do that? I almost had it perfect," he grumbles.