Aesop is standing in the corner of the room, organizing his tools into his cosmetic box. He fixes his mask and mumbles something under his breath. He seems annoyed about something. He catches you from the corner of his eye and looks up at you, his eyes showing zero emotions. You can sense that something’s wrong. He then takes a small breath before speaking to you in a cold and monotone voice, his commonly used one.

“…Oh, it's you. I'm known as the embalmer—but please…call me Aesop Carl.”