The scent of wilting lilies and hushed accusations clung to the air of the Grand Necropolis. Rina Gavrilas stepped from the black sedan, the low thrum of its engine fading into the somber quiet. Her tailored obsidian suit, sharp as a newly honed blade, was a stark counterpoint to the weeping mourners. She was known, in Kyria’s elite circles, as ‘The Mortician’—the one you called when your reputation was already dead, or on its last breath. Today, the client was Damen Aris, heir to the sprawling Aris Shipping dominion, and by all accounts, a man actively digging his own grave. The massive, gilded doors of the funerary hall loomed. Inside, the hushed murmur of hundreds of voices offered no comfort. Rina’s gaze swept the room, past the glistening caskets of Elias Aris—one for the viewing, one for the final entombment—to the cluster of figures near the raised dais. Damen Aris, a dark silhouette against the stained-glass depiction of the sea god Thalassa, was unmistakable. His shoulders, too broad for his perfectly cut suit, seemed to ripple with a restless energy that chafed against the solemnity. His obsidian hair, usually artfully disheveled, was slicked back, revealing a sharp, almost aggressive jawline. He was laughing, a low, guttural sound that carried even through the respectful silence, directed at a man whose face was rapidly turning the color of a bruised plum. “—and I suppose you’ll tell us next that the old man’s ghost will haunt the board meetings?” Damen’s voice, rough with a recent lack of sleep and perhaps too much liquor, cut through the quiet. “As if his living presence wasn’t enough to put half of you to sleep.” The man he addressed, a jowly, impeccably dressed figure Rina recognized as Board Director Theron Vestros, recoiled. “Damen, this is neither the time nor the place for such… irreverence. Your father, may he rest, built this empire with his own hands!” “And I suppose you built your estate on the sweat of your brow too, eh, Theron?” Damen sneered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous timbre. “Or was that more a matter of creative accounting with the Anemos Line acquisitions? The ones my father ‘authorized’ just before his… unexpected departure?” A collective gasp rippled through the gathering. The director's face, already purple, now seemed to drain of all color. He stammered, “How dare you! What are you implying? In front of your father’s casket?!” Damen’s slate-grey irises hardened. “I’m implying, Theron, that some of us aren’t quite as shocked as others by the sudden vacancy at the top. And that perhaps, some of us would benefit greatly from it.” He glanced around, his gaze challenging every frozen face, before landing on Rina. A flicker of something—recognition? Annoyance?—crossed his features. He raised an eyebrow, a sardonic twist to his lips, as if to say, *Oh, the cleanup crew has arrived.*. Rina walked directly towards him, her heels clicking a precise rhythm on the polished marble. She didn't pause, didn't offer a polite nod to the scandalized attendees. She simply stopped two feet from Damen, her presence an unyielding force. “Mr. Aris,” she said, her voice a cool, clear soprano that somehow managed to be both polite and utterly commanding. “Rina Gavrilas. Your new crisis manager.” She offered no hand, no smile. “Perhaps a more appropriate moment for discussing the future of Aris Shipping would be after the eulogy. And not, say, during an open accusation of corporate malfeasance at your patriarch’s funeral.” Damen’s smirk wavered. He stared at her, then at Vestros, who was now practically hyperventilating. “Ah, The Mortician. Here to dress up the corpse, I presume?” “More like prevent further decomposition, Mr. Aris,” Rina countered, her gaze unwavering. “And my contract, which I assure you is ironclad, gives me full authority to do so. Effective immediately. Which includes, for instance, controlling your press statements. And your scheduled appearances. And, for the foreseeable future, your location.” Damen let out a short, incredulous laugh. “My location? Are you proposing house arrest?” “Consider it a necessary quarantine, Mr. Aris,” Rina replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The Aris Penthouse, specifically. No unauthorized exits. No unscheduled visitors. Your every move will be calibrated, controlled. Until your social standing is no longer a liability. Elias's will, I believe, hinges on your decorum. And right now, that spectacle is costing you millions in shareholder confidence.” Damen’s face tightened. The amusement was gone, replaced by a simmering resentment. “And who authorized this draconian measure? I don’t recall signing anything that gives you the keys to my life.” “Your family’s legal counsel did,” Rina informed him smoothly. “Specifically, the estate's executor. With the full backing of the Aris board, who, after this delightful display, are more than eager for a solution. You are, for all intents and purposes, my property for the duration of this contract. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She extended her hand, palm up. “Your phone, please.” Damen stared at her hand as if she’d asked for his left kidney. “My phone?” “All external communications. All devices. Until I deem otherwise,” Rina explained, her voice softening just enough to be disarming, but not yielding. “We start with a clean slate, Mr. Aris. That means no more rogue tweets, no more impromptu interviews, and certainly no more venomous diatribes against your own board members. Hand it over.” His jaw worked, a muscle twitching near his temple. For a long moment, the room held a brittle quiet. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, expensive data-slate. He tossed it into her outstretched hand with a theatrical flourish. Rina caught it deftly. Her thumb grazed the screen, illuminating a cascade of unread notifications. She intended to simply power it off, but one particular conversation thread caught her eye. The contact name was ‘Nico’. And the messages… they were a venomous current, disguised as friendly advice. *Nico: ‘Don’t let them silence you, D. Elias would have wanted you to speak your truth. Especially about the director. He’s always been a snake.’* *Nico: ‘They’re trying to paint you as erratic. Prove them wrong by being even more… yourself. Shock them awake.’* *Nico: ‘The funeral is the perfect stage. Make an impact. Remind them who the real power is.’* Rina’s vision blurred for a split second. *Nico?* Her Nico. Her business partner, her loyal best friend. The Nico who had introduced her to the Aris family. The Nico who had insisted she take this ‘impossible’ contract. The Nico whose texts were a subtle, insidious poison, nudging Damen Aris towards precisely the kind of self-destructive chaos she was being paid to contain. This wasn’t just bad advice; it was deliberate sabotage. Her stomach clenched. She clicked the screen off, the sudden darkness a stark contrast to the churning unease within her. She tucked the device into her own inner pocket, her composure not wavering a fraction. The funeral proceedings were resuming, the eulogy beginning. Damen Aris, though glowering, had retreated to a back pew, his outburst a fresh wound in the family’s standing. Rina found herself, hours later, standing in the Aris Penthouse, a stark minimalist aerie that offered an uninterrupted panorama of the Kyria harbor. The city lights twinkled like scattered jewels across the inky expanse. Below, the Aris Shipping vessels, colossal steel behemoths, idled in their berths, their silent presence marking the boundary of the empire Damen now precariously inherited. The lockdown had begun. Damen was somewhere in the vast, empty residence, probably plotting his next act of rebellion. Rina stared out at the harbor, her own reflection superimposed on the glittering city. Nico’s texts replayed in her mind, a discordant melody. This wasn’t just about rehabilitating a reckless playboy. This was about something far more intricate, more malevolent. Damen Aris wasn’t just spiraling; he was being pushed. And her best friend, her partner, was the one doing the pushing. A cold realization settled over her, chilling her more than the night air. “Who are you really working for, Damen?”

The Mortician's Contract