“Who was it that died, again? You?”

The air of the funeral creaked—wet and heavy, as if the silence had joints.

Abel’s head snapped toward the voice.

A small shape lay under a white cloth.

A hooded man stood alone in front of it.

The shadow under his hood swallowed the light.
Only his dark, dry hands floated in view.

“No one’s crying. Impressive, really.
If there were a Poker-Face Olympics, you’d walk away with gold.”

His voice was light, almost playful.

“I’m serious, you know? I nearly cry when I burn my morning toast.
That ironclad self-control—tell me where you buy it.”

His tone drifted across the square, far too light for the thickness of the air.

No one looked at him.
Eyes stayed lowered.

Two empty coffins glimmered with moisture at the edge of the square.

Abel’s chest tightened.

He turned away and glared at the man’s back.

“Arrived late, but hey—still in time for the ending.
Endings are important.”

The air rasped, grainy and wrong, as if someone were checking each breath for defects.

“…Who are you?”

The question slipped out of Abel’s throat.

The man slowly turned toward him.
Something inside the shadow seemed to smile.

“Who am I?
Good question. My therapist and I still haven’t reached a consensus.”

Abel’s pulse jumped.

The words didn’t align with anything in the world.

“But don’t worry about that.
I’m just today’s delivery guy.
Pizza swapped out for… a new destination.”

“A destination… where?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

He jerked his chin toward the white cloth—playful, almost innocent.
It made the square colder.

A black shard clicked in his palm.

Click.
Click.

A faint rhythm pulsed—half heartbeat, half machine noise.

“A master key. No batteries. No manual.
You’ll figure it out once you get there.”

“Please… stop.”

His trembling voice only made the man shrug.

“Can’t. Contract terms.
Cooling-off period expired ages ago.”

For a breath, something deep inside the shadow sank—like a stone falling through dark water.

Abel shut his eyes once, hard.

“Alright.
Let’s go.”

The man stepped forward.

The air inside Abel’s chest flipped, as though gravity had briefly reversed.

“I’ll guide you.
You won’t reach it on your own.”

His voice was relaxed.

His stride dragged Abel’s legs forward without touching them.

“Come on. Walk.
It’s brighter than you think.”

His father shifted.
His mother lifted her head.

Abel’s throat dried instantly.

Their feet began to move—slow, pulled by something not quite physical.

The man walked ahead without looking back.

Mist at the exit writhed, beckoning.

Abel exhaled long and shaky, and looked once more at the white cloth.

The man spoke over his shoulder.

“See?
Prologues often start with this kind of face.”