#undertaker x reader

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Despite everything, Undertaker felt blessed.

His wife might be gone, but his children were alive. His daughter gave him two grandchildren. Then his son become a father of two twin boys.

Undertaker, secretly, was a proud grandfather. Distant, but still proud.

And then Rachel gave birth to one more kid. To you. Everyone thought, that it would be impossible. She already was frail and first pregnancy took a toll on her body. But she managed. Not only that, but the you were absolutely healthy.

During next Aristocrats of Evil meeting, Vincent brought you with him. Few years ago he did the same with newborn twins.

"That's [Y/N]." There was a proud smile on Vincent's face.

Undertaker looked at baby you. At small bundle of joy. At his grandchild.

Undertaker loved Vincent and Francis. He loved twins. But he adored you from the moment he saw you.

It become common for him to sneak into the mansion during the night, to play with baby you.

"Grandpa Undertaker will never let anything to hurt you, [Y/N]."

Time passed, you grow. You had a great relationship with your brothers.

Your dad had a lot of strange friends. You liked one of them. Undertaker, while strange, was your favourite. He always had cookies or fun stories for you.

For years, life was good.

But that day has come...

-----

The mansion, where his son and grandchildren lived, were burning.

Not a fire.

Pyre.

Undertaker searched. And searched.

His son was ashes.

His grandchildren were gone.

Undertaker was here all alone. On remains ob burned mansion.

But then... He heard a faint knocking...

-----

It was a miracle, that you survived. It was a miracle, that Undertaker heard you.

You were now under Francis and Alexis' care. Undertaker would like to take you in, but he must hunt down the people who were behind the attack.

And his dolls must be researched further. For Ciel...

Besides... You were now completely silent. A shell of a child you used to be. Undertaker knows, that you required a lot of care. Undertaker was afraid, that he couldn't give it to you.

For now, he was fine with you not being near.

----

His second grandson returned. With a demon.

Two of his grandchildren were now together again.

And the demon...

Undertaker saw it. That unnatural softness in demon's eyes when he was interacting with you. You were talking with a demon. You saw him is friend.

You could barely talk to Undertaker, and he used to be your favourite person!

Undertaker will make that demon pay. His scythe will cut through the devil's flesh until he drives this fiend back into the very depths of hell.

Your laughter still echoed in his memories, bright and unrestrained despite the chains of nobility. While Vincent was his dearest friend, you had been the only one to slip past his mask, the only mortal to ever know his real name: Adrien Crevan.

You had been the fire he could never extinguish, the softness in his eternity of morbidity. And then you died. Or so he thought.

He remembered your coffin. He remembered laying flowers on your grave, his long fingers shaking as dirt rained down on the lid. He remembered burning his own grief into obsession, tearing open the boundary between life and death in his desperate search for you. For all of them.

And so he laughed his hollow laugh, bent over his desk as the Record flickered into silence.

But then—

The door creaked open.

He stiffened, a hand reaching for the scythe hanging on the wall, his grin fixed in place. Few dared visit him at night. Fewer still uninvited.

And then a voice slipped through the fog. A voice that shattered centuries.

“Adrien.”

The name—his name—struck him like a blade. His scythe slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor. Slowly, disbelieving, he lifted his head.

There you stood.

Alive. Older, yes—years etched gently at the corners of your eyes, your presence heavier with sorrow—but unmistakably you. The tilt of your chin, the warmth of your gaze, the way the candlelight caught your hair.

His grin faltered. For the first time in a century, the mask cracked.

“...Is it truly you?” His voice was raw, trembling, stripped of its theatrical lilt. He stepped forward, as if you were a phantom that might vanish if he moved too quickly. His long silver hair spilled like moonlight over his shoulders as golden eyes widened. “I buried you with my own hands. I saw them burn your home to the ground. I have mourned you a thousand times in a thousand ways. Do you come to torment me?”

You shook your head, tears gathering in your lashes. “No torment, Adrien. Just truth. I survived that night. I was hidden away. Protected. But I never thought I’d see you again.”

He staggered forward, chains on his coat chiming faintly, every step hesitant and desperate. His hand lifted, trembling, before brushing your cheek—like testing whether you were warm flesh or cold illusion.

“Alive,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’re warm… You breathe.”

And then his face crumpled. Adrien Crevan—the Undertaker, deserter of the Reapers, architect of horrors—broke into trembling laughter that dissolved into a sound half-sob, half-laugh. He pulled you against him suddenly, clinging like a drowning man clings to driftwood.

“I tore the veil of heaven and hell for you. I made monsters, Dolls, corpses that mocked life itself. I damned myself a hundred times over… all because I thought you were gone.” His voice was muffled in your hair, shaking. “And here you stand, and I… I…”

You pressed your hand against his back, feeling the sharpness of his trembling frame beneath layers of chains and cloth. “Adrien,” you whispered, your own voice breaking. “I never stopped thinking of you. Even in hiding. Even when I thought you’d forgotten me.”

“Forgotten?” His laugh was bitter, unhinged. He pulled back just enough for you to see his face—eyes wet, grin trembling with something too raw to be mockery. “I destroyed myself for you. And I would again, if it meant never letting go.”

Silence followed, heavy with grief and longing. The candlelight flickered. The fog pressed against the windows like watching ghosts.

And in that silence, something shifted. The centuries of cruelty and obsession, the weight of his sins—they were still there, still chained to him. But with you before him, breathing and real, the darkness cracked. For the first time in decades, he felt something dangerously close to hope.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing. His voice dropped to a whisper only you could hear.

“Stay with me this time. Even if the world despises me. Even if heaven itself drags us both into hell.”

Your lips parted in a soft, trembling smile. “I stayed once before, Adrien. I’ll stay again.”

And for the first time since he left the Grim Reaper Dispatch, since he broke his oath and tore open the grave, Adrien Crevan laughed—light, genuine, almost human.

The Undertaker had found his ghost again. And this time, he would not let her go.

___ _ _ _

The lanterns in Undertaker’s workshop burned low, casting everything in shadows that flickered against walls lined with coffins. The smell of old wood, dust, and something metallic hung heavy in the air. You followed him carefully, your hand brushing over rough planks and glass jars as though every touch might reveal a new truth you weren’t ready to see.

“This is where I’ve been living,” Adrien said at last, his voice lower now, no longer coated in his usual teasing lilt. The way he said it, like a confession, made your heart tighten.

You glanced around—and froze.

One coffin sat open on the table, its contents too grotesquely lifelike. A corpse, skin pale and waxy, its eyes half-lidded as though it might blink at any second. A faint shiver ran down your spine. But then you noticed the stitching along its arms, the strange wires feeding into its chest, and realization struck.

“You… you made this,” you whispered.

Adrien didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—though it was pained, a smile filled with longing and shame all at once. “A Bizarre Doll. I’ve… made many.”

You took a step back, horror clashing with the ache in your chest. “Adrien… this isn’t life. This is…” Your words trembled. “This is desecration.”

He turned then, and for the first time since you had reunited, you saw the mask of laughter completely gone. His eyes, pale green and haunted, locked onto yours with naked desperation.

“I know,” he admitted, voice raw. “I know what I’ve done. But you don’t understand—I thought I lost you. I thought you were gone forever. I was trying to bring you back, again and again, in every shape, every shadow. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Your breath caught. He had done all this… for you.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. And yet, the man before you was not just a monster, not just the deserter Reaper the world called Undertaker. He was Adrien Crevan—the man who had once loved you with every corner of his soul, and who still did, even if it had twisted him into someone unrecognizable.

You stepped closer instead of away, daring to press your hand against his chest. “You don’t need to raise the dead to have me. I’m here. I’m alive.”

For a moment, silence filled the workshop. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, his hand trembled as it rose to cover yours.

“You’d still… stay?” His voice cracked, barely audible. “Even knowing what I’ve done?”

Your eyes softened. “I can’t forgive everything yet… but I still love you.”

Something inside him shattered. The man who had been hiding behind shadows and hollow laughter bent his head until his silver hair brushed your face. The kiss he pressed to your hand was reverent, almost desperate.

Days blurred together after that. Adrien began speaking to you more—not as Undertaker, the eerie mortician, but as Adrien Crevan, the man who had once left Heaven’s order behind. In quiet moments, he told you of his past. Of how he had been a Grim Reaper like the rest, a cog in the machine, harvesting souls without question. Of the moment he saw the Phantomhives fall, and how your death had driven him past the point of no return.

“I loathe killing,” he confessed one night, voice barely above the hum of the lantern flame. “Even when I was a Reaper, I despised it. But desecration… manipulation… these I endured, because the thought of never seeing you again was worse than any law I could break.”

You touched his cheek then, feeling the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “Adrien, you’ve lost yourself chasing ghosts. You can’t live like this forever.”

His gaze held yours, sharp and burning with a fire you hadn’t seen in years. “Then tether me,” he whispered. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

The air between you grew charged, your lips a breath apart, his hand curling at your waist as though afraid you might vanish. But just as his forehead touched yours, the door to the workshop slammed open.

They came at dusk.

Two figures stood framed by the dying light—the unmistakable silhouette of William T. Spears, glasses glinting coldly, and the flamboyant red of Grell Sutcliff’s hair.

“Adrien Crevan,” William said flatly, holding his Death Scythe at the ready. “You’ve evaded punishment long enough. The Dispatch has ruled. You will be eliminated.”

Adrien stepped in front of you instinctively, his coat sweeping as he blocked their line of sight. His laugh rose up then, but it was different this time—not hollow, not mocking. It was sharp, defensive, a blade drawn in sound.

“You’ll have to go through me,” he said.

Grell’s eyes darted past him, landing on you with intrigue. “Oho? And who is this darling little mortal he’s protecting? My, my… could it be the infamous lost Phantomhive?”

Your blood ran cold. If the Dispatch knew you were alive, if they tied you to Adrien’s rebellion, you’d both be doomed.

Adrien’s hand found yours, fingers gripping so tightly it almost hurt. “Stay behind me,” he murmured, his voice trembling with both fear and resolve. “No matter what happens.”

And for the first time in years, Undertaker—Adrien Crevan—didn’t hide behind his grin. His mask was gone. His green eyes blazed, fierce and unyielding, as he prepared to face Heaven’s judgment for the sake of love.

___ _ _ _

The cold gleam of William T. Spears’ glasses pierced the dim room like a guillotine blade. Grell twirled her crimson Death Scythe with theatrical flair, lips curling into a hungry grin.

“You’ve been very naughty, Adrien Crevan,” she purred. “Desertion, experimentation, desecration of corpses… and now, harboring a living mortal who should’ve been long dead? Mmm, how scandalous.”

Adrien stood tall in front of you, his coat brushing against your legs as he positioned himself between you and the threat. He didn’t laugh this time. His voice was steel when he answered:

“She is mine. If you want her, you’ll step over my body.”

A flicker of heat flushed your face—not because of the claim, but because of the raw truth in his words. He wasn’t hiding behind riddles or theatrics anymore. He was ready to be damned for you.

William adjusted his glasses, unimpressed. “So be it.”

Steel clashed with steel. The workshop erupted into chaos—wood splintered, coffins toppled, sparks flew as scythe struck against modified weapons Adrien had hidden within his shop. You stayed low, dodging debris, your heart pounding as you watched Adrien fight with the desperation of a man who refused to lose again.

At one point, Grell’s blade whistled too close. Adrien threw himself between you and the strike, his arm catching the edge. Blood darkened his sleeve, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he shoved Grell back with a guttural snarl, the laughter returning at last—but now it was laced with fury, not madness.

When the two Reapers retreated, promising they’d “be back with reinforcements,” silence descended. Adrien swayed slightly, his breath ragged, before leaning against the wreckage of his workbench.

You rushed to his side, hands grasping his coat. “Adrien, you’re bleeding—”

“Nothing I haven’t lived through before,” he muttered, but his green eyes softened at your frantic touch. He let you press a rag against the wound, his fingers brushing over yours briefly—too long to be accidental.

And then, as though the battle had stripped away the last mask, he whispered, “You deserve the truth.”

You stilled, waiting.

“My name… before the laughter, before the coffins, before all of this… was Adrien Crevan.” His voice cracked like dry parchment. “I was a Grim Reaper. A faceless soul in a sea of black coats, condemned to cut lives short without asking why. Day after day, scythe in hand, watching human stories end—beautiful stories, tragic ones, all severed without mercy.”

His eyes glistened, shadows of old grief flickering there.

“I grew weary of death. Of being nothing more than a function of order. And then… I found something worth living for. You.” His hand, trembling, rose to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. “When I thought I’d lost you, I broke. I deserted. I told myself I could bend death itself if it meant seeing your smile again.”

Your throat tightened. You had always seen him as untouchable, an enigma wrapped in shadows. But here he was—haunted, fractured, lonely.

“I hate killing,” he admitted, eyes lowering. “I loathe it more than anything. That is why I… stitch bodies, craft dolls, seek ways to give back what was taken. It is monstrous, yes—but to me, less monstrous than another soul ending forever.”

You couldn’t stop yourself. Your fingers found his hand, entwining with it. His sharp intake of breath betrayed how deeply the gesture struck him.

“You’re not a monster, Adrien,” you whispered. “You’re lost. And you’ve been alone for too long.”

His shoulders shook faintly. Slowly, he leaned into your touch, his forehead brushing yours. The faint smell of incense and iron lingered between you.

“You still call me Adrien…” he murmured, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

The air thickened with something unspoken. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you felt his breath, but he did not close the distance. Instead, his hand cradled your face, his thumb ghosting over your jaw as though you were something fragile, something he dared not shatter.

“You tether me,” he confessed. “Every time you say my name, I remember the man I was… not the shadow I became.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, heart hammering. “Then let me tether you, Adrien. Stay with me. No more running, no more corpses, no more loneliness. Just… us.”

For a long, aching heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his lips brushed your temple—soft, reverent, trembling with restraint.

“Slowly,” he whispered against your skin. “If I go too fast, I’ll lose myself again.”

Your hands clutched his coat, your heart screaming for more, but you nodded. A slow-burn redemption, a love rebuilding itself from ashes—step by step.

And as the ruined workshop lay silent around you, Adrien Crevan—the Undertaker—allowed himself, for the first time in centuries, to hope.

___ _ _ _

The night air clung heavy with fog as you and Adrien pressed your backs against the cold stone of an abandoned chapel on the outskirts of London. Behind you, distant voices of the Reaper Dispatch echoed like thunder, searching, relentless.

“They won’t stop hunting me,” Adrien murmured, his voice hushed, sharp green eyes scanning the darkness. “Not after tonight.”

His long fingers rested against the hilt of the blade hidden beneath his coat. He looked tired—far more than he ever let anyone see. And for once, the laughter wasn’t there to fill the silence.

You reached out, brushing your fingertips against his sleeve. “Then let them hunt. You’re not alone anymore.”

He froze. Slowly, his gaze turned to you, softening in a way that made your chest ache. His hair fell into his face, shadows framing him like a portrait of a man both ruined and radiant.

“Not alone…” he repeated, as though tasting the words for the first time. His hand covered yours, larger, colder, trembling faintly. “Do you know how many centuries I’ve dreamed of hearing you say that again?”

You didn’t answer with words. You stepped closer, until the fog seemed to close around just the two of you. His breath ghosted over your lips, uneven, almost ragged—as if holding himself back had cost him more than all the battles, more than every doll, every lie.

“I should let you go,” he whispered. “I should set you free before I drag you down with me.”

“Then why haven’t you?” you asked softly.

Silence. His mask cracked. His green eyes burned with something raw, desperate, hungry. And then, with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, he crushed you against him.

The kiss was centuries overdue—feral, reverent, desperate all at once. His lips claimed yours, rough at first, then breaking into something softer, trembling, as though he couldn’t decide whether to devour you or worship you.

Your hands tangled in his silvery hair, pulling him closer. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth. The wall of the chapel pressed against your back as Adrien’s body caged yours, shielding you from a world that had tried so hard to take him away.

When he finally tore his lips from yours, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and uneven.

“You tether me,” he rasped, echoing his confession from nights before. “Every second your lips touched mine, I remembered—I am not death. Not anymore. I am yours.”

You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Then stop fighting it, Adrien. Stop running. Just be mine.”

For the first time in centuries, Adrien Crevan laughed—not the haunting, hollow cackle of the Undertaker, but a quiet, broken laugh of a man who’d found life again.

And he kissed you once more, deeper, slower, as if sealing a vow.

It was a questionable theory but he made great points. 1. No one can suddenly sneak pass and cause such a scene without someone noticing. 2. All of these women died in clear view areas, so there's no way that a human could kill a another quick enough to not cause an uproar. 3. The tool used was literally out of this world, there's no tool ever made within the duration of man kind to cause such carnage, thus he came to the conclusion that there was a creature of other worldly powers at play here.

It was around mid day when another customer came in, but this time, it was a gaggle of nobles. You were in the back of the shop, stitching together another unfortunate maiden when you heard the bell ring. You didn't stop what you were doing when you heard the voices, as your husband has already made himself rather comfortable in the front.

The bell chimed and in walked multiple people, however you recognized this voice instantly, it belonged to the ever gloomy child of Phantomhive. Earl Ciel Phantomhive was his proper title. He was practically a regular here, having come practically once every few months when the queen sent him to fetch a stray ball. He'd come here, looking for answers on the bodies, trying to uncover any hints as to who the evildoer might be. His family as been well acquainted with your husband, long before you ever married him. You yourself knew your husband since the late Vincent Phantomhive was but a young boy.

You listened to the voices, as they spoke moderately about the recent deaths of the young maidens. Your nose twitched as you seemed to have picked up a scent but you placed it to the back of your mind for later, your primary focus was on making this unfortunate maiden look beautiful again. However, it didn't take long for your husband to get excited, it never did when it came to the little lord. You sighed as you shook your head fondly listening to all the different voices in the parlor. You pulled the thread tight, closing the suture, tying a tight knot before you cut the thread. You dropped the needle in a jar of alcohol while you walked over to the sink to wash your hands.

The sound of the group leaving the parlor sounded out and you arched a brow in confusion. 'That's odd, for there to be no lau-' You quickly silenced your thoughts when the silky voice of the butler sounded out, a knowing look on your face. 'Ah, so the little lord has sent his ever loyal crow to tell a joke... so inflexible.' You thought as you dried your hands, listening to the joke, your husband's laughter wasn't exaggerated, it was in fact a hilarious joke to hear, it even had you laughing.

Wiping a tear from your eye you listened to the little group wander back inside, your husband's laughter dying down into breathless chuckles. You moved about the back room silently as you gathered clothes for the young maiden to wear, looking through dresses that was hung up on a clothing rack you sorted through them, looking back at the young maiden and back at the dress before you shook your head before you moved on to the next dress.

The door where you were opened and in walked your husband a giddy smile on his face. " 'Ello love, looking for a skirt for the lovely maiden?" He asked as he walked over to the sink. You nodded your head with a sigh. "Yes, I'm looking for a color that could compliment her hair, dark hair isn't always easy to pair with brighter colors, I might have to match her with something a little more darker, possibly even neutral." You explained as you moved down to the more darker dresses. "Hehehe~,I do believe a delightful shade of deep green would most enchantingly adorn her! The harmonious union of brown and green is perpetually pleasing to the eye, would it not be so, my dear?" He spoke aloud, you hummed in thought as you pondered over his words for a bit before you shuffled through the dresses. Finding a lovely dark olive dress with apricot colored frills and ruffles.

The sound of glass clanging gently against one another sounded out and you looked over your shoulder, seeing your husband rummage in the measuring glasses and flasks. With an unimpressed stare you watched him as you cuddled the dress in your arms. "Love... just what are you doing?" You asked him. He turned to you with an arm full of flasks and measuring cups. "Pray, we do have visitors, indeed we do, and I have resolved to be a most agreeable host by extending the courtesy of tea to my esteemed company." He said. You made an appalled noise. "You're going to serve them with those glasses!! Are you mad!?" You asked him. He tilted his head with a wide grin as he chuckled. "Verily, I daresay I am not wholly present, thus perchance. Moreover, what injury doth it entail? It is not as though they are lacking in cleanliness."

He argued, you groaned in slight irritation as you hung the dress back up on the rack. His smile dropped. "Oh dear." He said. You whirled on him with an displeased glare as you marched over towards him. "Those glass were once filled with alcohol, blood, organs, dirtied needles, embalming liquids, the list goes on and on!! I told you we should've gotten that tea set we seen at the shop a week ago!!" You lectured as you pushed passed him, he stepped aside as you pulled a kettle out of the cupboard filling it up with water as you held your palm under it, quickly bring it to a boil making the kettle squeal.

"Put the glass down and go and fetch some bags." you ordered, he made quick work of placing the glasses down before he went and gathered some tea bags. Pouring a decent amount of water into each glass, you sighed in disappointment at the sight of the flasks and measuring cups. It was an utter embarrassment to be serving your company in such glasses!! The humiliation would be enough to take your immoral life. A gentle hand placed itself on your waist as it pulled you towards a warm and familiar body.

"Pray, dear heart, should it bring you solace, our esteemed assembly is by no means conventional, and they venture not hither for the sake of tea; rather, their purpose is the pursuit of knowledge." he said gently trying to sooth your worries, it worked very slightly but seeing the flasks only made you sink once more. He seen your gaze practically piercing the glass. "Pray, do not fret, my dear, for I did observe that the tea set remains in its rightful place. When our affairs have concluded, we shall make a brief sojourn to procure it." he said. You looked up at him with a hopeful smile. "truly?" You asked. His smile widened at seeing your eyes gleam as he nodded. "Yes, truly love." He promised.

With that he made his way back into the front with the steaming hot glasses of water. You happily made your way back over to the dresses, pulling the dark olive green one back down, you draped it over the young maiden, seeing that your husband was right. "Hmm... He has an eye for fashion." You said aloud as you pulled the hanger from the dress. It didn't take long before you heard the company began to leave. The young maiden was dressed and cleaned and was now ready for you to bury, the young maiden had no family, being a foreigner.

Elizabeth Stride, born November 27 1843 and met her untimely end on September 30 1888, she was from Sweden, far from home, that she was. The poor lass. You looked away from her with a tired sigh as you walked out of the room and out towards the front. Your husband was busy tidying up some of the coffins, polishing them and keeping them presentable. You sighed as you seen the empty flasks and measuring glasses on the checkout counter. You walked over and gathered them all up. Turning back to go to the back room, your husband's voice stopped you. "My dearest, upon your completion of the cleaning of those glasses, might we venture forth to procure that exquisite tea service?" He asked with a wide grin.

As you navigated the bustling streets of Victorian London, your curious eyes searched for opportunities to snatch coins or scraps of bread. You had been successful yesterday, but it had come at the cost of a bruised rib. You hoped for better luck today, as it would spare you from starvation.

With a sigh, you settled on the edge of the pavement, hunched over with your hands resting on your cheeks and a frown on your face. You weren’t particularly skilled at stealing or tricking people. Once, you had been part of the working class until your father passed away, leaving only you and your mother. Unfortunately, your mother—being uneducated and a woman—found it very difficult to secure a decent job, which limited her options to less respectable means of earning money.

Look where that got her… dead. Disregarded and buried in the gutter. As far as you knew, your mother had contracted some disease from her job, which ultimately killed her. Now you were all that remained, having fallen in class but still alive and struggling to survive.

Your eyes darted to each carriage that passed, filled with blue-blooded individuals who only sneered and looked uptight in their ridiculous hats. You stood up, dusted off your worn dress, and decided not to feel sorry for yourself. You resolved to do something about your situation—perhaps you could find a job. Maybe people would take pity on you, a child, and offer you a position as an assistant or something similar. But that felt like wishful thinking, especially considering what had happened to your mother.

With some newfound energy, you strutted down the street, the soles of your shoes slapping against the cobbled ground. Perhaps you could steal some rich kid's clothes, replace them, and become an earl, or whatever it is that girls become. Wives? Not for you. You wanted to be rich and powerful.

Your strutting came to a halt when you spotted a group of sorrowful people entering a church in the cemetery. 'Who died today? Probably some rich guy, considering the number of people here; he obviously had enough money for a funeral,' you thought bitterly, holding onto the iron fence. You sighed. Maybe you could take the coins from his eyes and get a slice of bread, but alas, you’d get caught.

Your gaze flicked to the side when you saw a black blur stop at the fence on the other side. You raised an eyebrow at the strange man. 'How can he even see with all that hair?' You believed yourself to be a kind and cheerful girl, so you decided to approach him.

The man's tall and imposing presence was accentuated by a cascade of long, silver-grey hair that looked somewhat dusty. "Today is a man’s special gala—the final great ceremony in every human's life: a funeral," he spoke, as if to no one in particular.

You skipped over and abruptly skidded to a stop in front of him. "Hello, Mister!" you grinned brightly at the man, a stark contrast to the weeping souls behind him. Your curious voice pierced through the solemn air, catching the attention of the tall man. His gaze shifted downwards to meet your young face, a flicker of surprise in his intense eyes. He studied you for a moment, his expression stoic yet intrigued, before responding with a wry smile. "Ah, there we go. A curious one we have here," he replied, his voice as velvety as the surrounding mist.

He leaned down a bit, bringing his head closer to your level, his hair framing his face like a silver veil. As he spoke, his eyes seemed to dance with an undercurrent of playful humour. "I take it you’re not here to mourn but to observe, are you not, young one?" You nodded your head. "I was passing by and it caught my attention. They’re pretty loud, to be honest; hard not to notice."

At your affirmation, the man chuckled softly, the sound like a whisper against the stillness of the cemetery. "I thought as much. You've got a curious gleam in your eye, one that yearns for more than a mere funeral. Tell me, curiosity, what’s your name?"

"I'm (Y/n)," you said, holding out your hand. The man's grin widened at the sound of your name. He nodded, silently committing it to memory, and shook your hand. "(Y/n), is it? A fine name indeed. As fine as your curiosity, I dare say." He straightened up again, still towering above you, and looked out across the gathering mourners with an air of practised calm.

The man's gaze lingered on the sombre scene before them, the mourners like black moths drawn to the flickering flames of grief. He spoke quietly, his voice a soothing murmur, as if he was sharing a secret. "An aristocrat, one of the wealthy elites who hold this city in the palm of their hand. His name, however, has little significance anymore. To me, he is simply another name on a long list of those who've shuffled off this mortal coil."

Your eyebrows furrowed as you grabbed the iron bars and bent your back, looking up at the silver-haired man in a position deemed 'unladylike' by others, but the strange man didn’t seem to care about a child's need to constantly move. "What's mortal mean?" 

The man's eyes glinted with a hint of amusement. He chuckled softly again at your innocent question. "Ah, mortal, simply put, means 'of this world'—alive. A mortal coil is another way of referring to life. To say someone shuffled off this mortal coil means they have died." 

You pressed your lips into a thin line, still confused. "So, people who are mortals... will die soon?" The man paused for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the funeral, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Ah, yes. All mortals face death, young one. It's the one certainty in this world. No matter who you are or how powerful you might be, death comes for us all."

You released your grip on the iron fence, straightened your back, and stood on your tiptoes to look over. "And then the Grim Reaper will take them away?" The man's grin twisted into an almost mischievous smile at the mention of the Grim Reaper. He leaned down a bit closer to you as if sharing a tantalizing secret. "Oh, the Grim Reaper, hmm? You've heard of him, have you? Yes, he's quite infamous. And you're right. When a mortal shuffles off this mortal coil, the Grim Reaper greets them and guides them to the world beyond our own."

His voice dropped to an almost conspiratorial tone, a hint of dark humour in his eyes as he continued. "Some say he's a fearsome sight, a cloaked figure with a giant scythe. Others say he's a friendly fellow who simply does his job. But one thing is for sure: he's part of the natural order of things. As certain as night follows day, the Grim Reaper comes for us all in the end."

You nodded, your eyes sparkling with a curious gleam for a child discussing death. The man chuckled softly at your wide-eyed acknowledgement, amused by how seriously you seemed to take the information. "You're very receptive, aren't you? Most children your age wouldn't approach this conversation so seriously. But not you. You have a thirst for knowledge, hmm?"

You grinned at the man, admiration already beginning to settle in. "Yeah!" You were practically bouncing on your feet.  The man chuckled again, unable to help but smile at your enthusiasm. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes glittering with curiosity "Well then, since you're so keen to learn more, here’s a question for you," the man paused, his grin widening ever so slightly. "Have you ever wondered what actually happens after death?" 

"Eh..." Your expression dropped as you lightly scratched your cheek and shrugged your shoulders. "I don't know; I haven't really thought about it... never bothered to, despite..." You paused mid-sentence. "I'm ten," you added, changing the last part.

The man chuckled again, a touch of amused disbelief in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, studying you for a moment before responding. "A bit young, huh? Well, that's fair. But it's quite interesting you're curious about everything else, but not this. Can I ask you another question, (Y/n)?"

The man's gaze turned thoughtful, his eyes studying you closely as he asked his next question. His voice still carried a note of quiet humor. "You said you weren't here to mourn, but to observe, yes? So, what exactly is the most interesting thing you've spotted about this funeral so far?"

"...The body," you say, looking down. You wanted those damn coins, but you couldn't admit that, so you said, "It looks like he was stabbed in the face." In that moment of deception, you hoped it was true.

The man's eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and dark humour playing on his face. He chuckled softly to himself. "Ah, I see. You observed the dead man, did you? And that's the most interesting thing you've noticed, eh? A face full of stab wounds, you say? Quite a macabre observation, young one."

'Was that seriously what happened?!' Despite the shocking revelation swirling in your mind, you cringed outwardly, continuing to maintain your falsehood. "Yeah... it must have hurt a lot." 

The man grinned again, a mixture of wry humour and morbid fascination dancing in his eyes. "Oh, I can assure you, it did hurt. It probably hurt an unthinkable amount. Death by stab wounds is anything but pleasant."

"What dead bodies have you seen?" you say, tilting your head and placing your hands behind your back, looking like a polite schoolboy. 

The man paused for a moment, his mind seemingly flickering through the memory of past funerals. The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he responded, but his eyes held a touch of dark amusement. "Ah, I've seen quite a few. A rather... unique part of my job as a funeral director. But I suppose some stick in my memory more than others."

“Oooh! You’re the funeral person! What’s your full name? Under...under-” you ask, racking your brain for it. You honestly thought he was just some oddly dressed guest.

The man chuckled again, clearly amused by your attempt to remember the word. He leaned down a touch, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Undertaker. Just call me Undertaker, dearie."

 You nodded before looking back at the steets, your stomach rumbling. You frowned at the Inconvenience. "I have to go now..."

The man, Undertaker, chuckled at the sound of your stomach growling. He watched you with an amused smile for a moment before responding. "Ah, hungry are we? Well, I suppose it's time for you to be on your way then, dearie." 

You waved your hand at him, begging to walk away. "Bye, bye!" You'll definitely be going back to him.

Undertaker watched you waving and grinned, nodding his head in farewell, a hint of amusement still dancing in his green eyes. "Farewell, (Y/n). Until we meet again."

As you turned to leave, the man watched you go, an amused smile lingering on his face. For a moment, he almost seemed like a different person, someone less grim and more... human. But as you disappeared into the crowd, the humor slowly faded from his expression, and the man known as the Undertaker of Death returned, an eccentric figure standing in the shadows of the graveyard, observing the funeral from a distance.

He watched the rest of the funeral proceedings with a stoic exterior, his mind now filled with curious thoughts about the young, observant child. You were certainly unlike any other child he had encountered during a funeral. Your morbid curiosity and eagerness to learn were a stark contrast to the usual sobs and tears.

The ceremony eventually came to an end, and the mourners began to disperse. The man known as the Undertaker remained in his place, his gaze lingering a moment longer on the spot where you had stood. Then, with a final glance at the grave, he turned and silently disappeared into the shadows of the graveyard, his thoughts still focused on the curious, morbid child he had just encountered.

"AHHHH I COULD'VE JUST ASKED FOR A JOB THENNNN!!"