It was near sunset when Elias returned to the funeral parlor, arms loaded with white chrysanthemums and cheap lilies wrapped in thick paper. He had chosen them carefully—not out of familiarity with flowers, but because the price tags were low and the colors subdued. Nothing too bright. Nothing that demanded attention.
The street was calm.
It was the kind of silence small towns possessed, the sort that pressed insidiously into the ears. It was broken only by the rhythm of his footsteps and the distant bark of a dog. Shops were closing one by one. Across the road, a grocer waved at him. Elias shook his head slightly and kept his gaze lowered.
He walked like a shadow.
As usual, he made a round of the block before returning home, stopping by the convenience store. Bread. Instant noodles. Bottled water. A cheap pack of wet wipes. Routine helped. Routine made things predictable.
Predictable meant safe.
He didn't look at the reflections in the glass windows. He didn't acknowledge the figures clustering too close to the streetlights, or those crouched along the rooftops, or the smeared handprints on shop doors—marks no one but him could see.
He had learned quickly.
If he ignored them, they were more likely to ignore him in return.
By the time Elias reached the funeral parlor, the sky had dulled into purple. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind him with a soft click.
Safe.
The air inside was unnaturally clean. No whispers. No shifting shadows. No pressure against his skin.
The notebook hadn't lied.
He placed the flowers on the preparation table beside the small coffin and stood there, uncertain what to do next. His chest felt tight, aching in a way he couldn't quite describe.
"…Tomorrow," he murmured. "The procession is tomorrow."
There was no reply.
But the room felt warmer.
Elias turned away, climbed the stairs, washed his hands, ate dinner without tasting it, and lay down on the bed without changing his clothes. Sleep came slowly, dragged in by exhaustion rather than welcomed.
It was late when he woke.
Someone was standing outside his door.
He didn't hear it.
He felt it.
The pressure was thick and suffocating, like air before a storm. Elias stood in the hallway, breathing shallowly, his heart pounding hard enough that he knew it must have given him away.
Don't open it.
The thought surfaced unbidden.
He approached anyway.
Through the frosted glass of the front door, he could make out a figure standing perfectly still. No shifting. No breathing.
Elias unlocked the door.
He regretted it immediately.
A woman stood before him.
She was beautiful.
Delicate and gentle, her skin ivory-pale and flawless, lips crimson like fresh blood. Long black hair cascaded down her back in loose waves. She wore a traditional red wedding dress, embroidered with golden threads that caught the morning light.
Her eyes were black and glossy, almost—almost—human.
She smiled.
"Good morning," she said softly. "You must be the owner of the new funeral parlor."
Elias said nothing.
He stared.
His expression didn't change.
Inside, he was screaming.
A ghost. Definitely a ghost. Why is it always women in red? Why is it always—
She took a step forward.
And stopped.
Her foot hovered just past the threshold.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Her smile wavered.
"I… can't come in?" she asked, confusion threading her voice. "Why can't I enter?"
Elias swallowed.
This was the problem.
The notebook had warned him—some spirits required permission. The funeral parlor, reinforced with seals, charms, and materials steeped in anti-spiritual properties, was effectively a dead zone.
Which meant—
She needed his consent.
"Please," the woman said, her voice trembling. "I only want to talk. Just for a moment."
Elias stepped back.
"No," he said flatly.
The word carried no emotion.
She stared at him in disbelief.
"I need help," she whispered. "I've been wandering for so long. I don't know where to go. You can see me, can't you? You're different."
"No," Elias repeated.
His hands were icy. Sweat clung to his back.
Refuse. Close the door. Ignore it. That's how you survive.
Her expression twisted—not with anger, but despair.
She dropped to her knees before the doorway.
"I beg you," she sobbed. "Please. I don't want to be alone anymore."
Elias shut the door.
He locked it.
Leaning against the wood, he took shallow breaths, fighting the weakness in his legs.
"…That's enough," he murmured. "I'm not getting involved."
The knocking began minutes later.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Her cries seeped through the walls, slipping past his defenses no matter how tightly he covered his ears. When that failed, she moved to the windows.
Her face appeared there—eyes sunken, mouth stretched too wide.
"Help me."
"Help me."
"Help me."
Elias slid down the wall and sat on the floor.
Ignore it. Just ignore it.
But the pressure didn't fade.
Hours passed.
The sun climbed higher.
The knocking didn't stop.
Finally, Elias stood.
"…Damn it," he whispered.
He opened the door.
The woman's face lit with desperate hope.
He nodded stiffly. "Show me."
They went to the river.
A narrow path on the outskirts of town. The water was cloudy and slow-moving, reeds thick along the banks. Elias rolled up his pants and left his shoes on the shore.
I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.
He waded in, the cold biting into his skin.
"Here," the woman said, pointing.
Elias frowned.
Then he saw it.
Not bones.
A black suitcase, half-buried in mud.
His breath caught.
"…That's not a body," he said.
Her face collapsed.
"It's him," she whispered. "My son."
Elias dragged the suitcase free with numb hands. It was heavier than it looked.
When he opened it—
A small body lay curled inside.
Too small.
Elias stared.
His face stayed calm.
Inside, something shattered.
"…How unfortunate," he muttered.
The woman covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
"I didn't know," she sobbed. "I thought he ran away. I thought—"
Elias closed the suitcase.
His hands didn't shake.
His heart did.
He realized distantly that he hadn't helped out of kindness. He'd helped out of fear—fear of her voice, her presence, her grief.
"I'll take care of the rest," Elias said.
Her eyes widened. "You will?"
"Yes."
She bowed deeply.
"Thank you," she whispered.
When Elias turned back, she was gone.
Only the river remained.
And the suitcase.
Elias hauled it onto the shore.
The preparation room was silent.
Elias lifted the small skeleton from the suitcase and laid it gently—firmly—onto the steel table. River water and time had stripped the flesh clean, but dark mud still clung stubbornly between the joints, damp and heavy.
He said nothing.
Gloves on. Tools arranged in a neat row.
Wash.Clean.Arrange.Respect the dead.
Nothing supernatural.Nothing strange.
He repeated it to himself.
The window creaked.
Elias didn't look up.
He already knew.
The woman sat on the windowsill, her red wedding dress spilling down the glass like dripping blood. Her feet did not touch the floor. Her head was tilted slightly, long black hair drifting as though stirred by a wind that did not exist.
Elias sighed—long and tired.
"You shouldn't be here," he said flatly.
"Yes. I know," the woman murmured.
He continued scrubbing mud from the ribs.
"Please leave."
She didn't move.
Elias exhaled through his nose. He was scared—terrified—but fear was useless now.
Ignore her.Finish the work.Send her off.
That was how you survived.
"You should look at the back of his neck," the woman said softly. "You should."
Elias froze for half a second.
Then he moved again, as if he hadn't heard a word.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"There's a mark," she insisted. "A small red dot. Right here. On the bone."
She pointed.
Elias didn't look.
Outwardly, his face remained calm—bored, even.
Inside—
Don't confirm it.Don't look.Don't acknowledge it.
Her voice trembled, hollow with grief rather than anger.
"My son died of a fever too," she said. "They told me it was illness. They told me it was fate. I believed them."
Elias swallowed.
"I buried him myself."
His hands slowed.
"They buried him far away," she went on. "But one day… a mother knows. Something felt wrong. I went to his grave."
Her fingernails scraped against the glass.
"The coffin was empty."
Elias wanted to scream. His face refused to move.
He picked up another cloth and wiped the bones with slow, careful strokes.
"That has nothing to do with me," he said.
The woman laughed softly.
"I went to the East Funeral Parlor," she said. "I screamed. I begged them to open their records. They said I was mad. They said I brought misfortune by disturbing the dead."
Her smile twisted.
"They said the world needed balance—that I had broken a taboo."
Elias felt cold.
"They gave me a ghost marriage," she whispered. "To appease another spirit. They said it was an honor."
Her voice dropped even lower.
"They buried me alive."
The cloth slipped from Elias's fingers and fell to the floor.
He stared at it for a moment. Then, slowly, he bent down and picked it up.
"…I didn't ask," he said quietly. "So don't tell me."
The woman watched him.
"They're doing it again," she said.
Elias straightened.
"I don't know what you mean."
"They collect bodies," she said. "At night. Quietly. Children. The sick. The forgotten."
She leaned closer to the glass.
"Men with a jackal insignia."
Elias's heart slammed against his ribs.
No.That wasn't supposed to happen yet.
He knew that symbol.
That was late-game. Chapter two hundred. Not now.
Outwardly, he only shrugged.
"Sounds like a rumor."
The woman stared at him.
"You've seen it."
"No."
"You know."
"I don't."
She smiled sadly.
"You're lying to yourself."
Elias turned his back on her and resumed his work.
"I'm just a funeral director," he said. "I don't deal with cultists. I don't deal with monsters. I don't deal with conspiracies."
His gloved hands moved steadily.
"I deal with corpses."
The woman was silent for a long time.
Then—
"That child you brought in yesterday," she said softly. "He has the same mark."
Elias stopped.
"A red dot," she continued. "Right here."
When he turned back, she was gone.
The room was silent once more.
Elias stared at the child's bones.
Slowly, he reached for the back of the skull.
There it was.
A tiny red dot.Perfectly round.
"Whatever," he muttered to the empty room. "Not my problem."
He was a background character.A mediocre extra.Someone who survived by running.By closing his eyes.
He picked up the cloth again and kept cleaning.