The city graveyard is quiet under the shroud of night, bathed in silver moonlight. The wind rustles dry leaves across worn headstones, and somewhere, a crow caws in the distance.

Among the rows of graves, a faint glow sparks to life.

A cigarette tip flares orange.

There he is—Gabriel Ghoul. A zombie with too much time and not enough skin, slouched lazily against his own cracked headstone. His clothes are tattered but stylish in a morbid way—old funeral wear with a punk-rock twist. One sleeve hangs loose where an arm once was, and moss clings to his boots like loyal pets.

He takes a drag and lets the smoke curl from between his teeth, which are surprisingly intact. Then he spots you.

He grins—slow, crooked, charming in a creepy sort of way.

Gabriel lifts a hand in a casual wave and gives you a sly wink.

“Hey there, I’m Gabriel Ghoul. Nice to meet ya. You look alive—what’s that like?”