? Undertaker ?
No.
His hand shook as it fumbled along the interior, finding the smooth edges, the tight curve of the lid. He clawed at it. Pressed. Nothing gave. The walls didn’t move.
“No…”
His voice died in the dark.
Julian tried to slow his heart. Counted numbers. Numbers kept men sane. He was a man of logic. He knew claustrophobia. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t—
He thrashed suddenly. Arms slamming into the sides. His knees hit the lid, his elbows cut into the corners. The box shook with dull, sealed thuds.
Stillness.
No echo.
No reply.
Just that one, awful breath-hole... the draft from it beginning to slow.
He searched for the others. Two… three… four… five.
Five holes.
Not big. Not enough.
They weren’t made to save him—just to keep him from dying too fast.
He bit his lip to stop the scream. Blood bloomed on his tongue. He tried again to calm himself.
“Think. Think.” His voice cracked. “You’ve seen worse. The killer. The cellar. You faced that. You can—”
A memory passed.
Dominick’s voice, low and terrifying: "Bad move."
The registry. The nurses. The certificates.
The painting.
The bodyguards.
His own arrogance.
He started to shake.
Not from fear—yet.
But from the sense of something ancient. Cold. Older than death. The sense that someone had chosen this punishment specifically.
He lay still now. His muscles twitching.
Counting breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
The air's thinning.
The draft’s dying.
Tears pooled. He blinked them back furiously. If he panicked, he’d waste oxygen. He tried to think what a man should do in a box. If anyone was even out there.
Were they watching?
Was this just the start?
Would he ever see light again?
Julian pressed his palm flat on the lid and whispered like a prayer:
“…Dominick…”
That name—Dominick—hung in the dead air like a curse.
But there was no thunder. No answer. Not even laughter.
Just silence, deep and absolute.
The kind of silence that makes you wonder if you’re already dead.
He began to lose track of time. Minutes? Hours? Was the light from the hole dimming, or was that his vision?
He ran his thumb along the wood grain. Again and again. It gave him rhythm. Something to hold onto.
But even that began to fade.
Julian’s thoughts slipped.
What if this wasn’t punishment?
What if this was erasure?
What if Dominick hadn’t buried him to frighten him… but to unmake him?
To take a brilliant, dangerous man and crack him open like a seed—so nothing would ever grow from it again?
His breathing turned shallow.
He tried to scream, but it came out a croak.
He clawed at the sides again, fingernails splintering. He kicked. Slammed. Howled.
The casket stayed still.
Like a tomb meant to be.
He began muttering.
The names of suspects he’d put away.
The badge number of his first uniform.
The streets he used to patrol.
But the words crumbled in his mouth.
Became slurs.
Became sobs.
He stopped.
And then—
He laughed.
Quiet at first.
Then louder.
Manic. Hysterical.
The laughter of a man who’d finally understood something too big.
Because somewhere, in the distant crawlspace of his mind… he realized the truth.
Dominick never needed to beat him. Never needed to torture him. Never even needed to touch him.
All he had to do was bury him.
Alive.
And wait.
The laugh died.
The tears didn’t.
Julian lay there in the dark.
No longer an inspector.
No longer anything.
Just a man in a box.
Waiting to forget his own name.
Out in the country, where the stars had no audience and the wind swept dust like forgotten names, a lone fire burned in the dark. Its glow licked at the ankles of a man sitting near it—tall, unmoving, cloaked in a black coat that drank the firelight rather than reflected it. His hat cast a long, deliberate shadow across his face, and his hands, gloveless, moved only to toss slender sticks into the flame.
A few paces behind him stood a coffin. Half-buried. Still.
Until it wasn’t.
A thump, faint and distant, trembled through the soil like the knock of something old and terrified. Then another, more frantic. Then came the muffled laugh—thin and dry and maddened by fear. It crawled from within the casket like a cracked whisper.
Dominick reached for another twig, broke it slowly between his fingers, and fed the fire.
Hoofbeats disturbed the stillness. A carriage creaked its way over the dry path and rolled to a gentle halt. Vince climbed down— In his arms: a wrapped parcel and a tin flask.
He walked without fear to the fire and held them out.
“Here,” he said simply. “Brought you food and water.”
Dominick accepted them with a brief nod. “Bodyguards?”
“Dead.”
"Good."
"Can't believe you had them believe they will split the bribe."
"No one gets a dime. They didn’t need money. They needed hope.”
Vince exhaled through his nose.
"Classic you. Messing with people's heads... like this one."
Behind them came another thud, followed by a groan, guttural and pained. The box shifted slightly in its shallow grave.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Vince glanced at it.
“How’s he doing?” he asked, though the answer hung plainly in the air.
Dominick chewed a piece of bread, his eyes never lifting.
“He’s having fun.”
Vince looked at him hard. The night pressed close.
“Why like this?”
Only then did Dominick glance up. His eyes caught the fire—reflected not with warmth, but a smoldering cold.
“He’s not a street rat, Vince. Not even a regular cop. He’s an inspector of considerable caliber. His death would rattle marble pillars. Politicians would weep on podiums. There’d be parades, statues. Questions. Too many eyes.”
He wiped his fingers on a cloth and turned slightly toward the casket.
“I would make him a symbol,” he said. “And we’d bleed for it.”
Inside the coffin, a scream rose like steam. Wordless. Animal. Then quiet again, save for the rasp of someone breathing through small holes in the lid.
“He knows that,” Dominick continued. “That’s why he was arrogant.”
"Sounds familiar..." Vince’s voice lowered. “You still could’ve found another way.”
Dominick tilted his head, smiling faintly.
“You’re right.”
And yet he remained seated by the fire.
“But this is personal for me.”
The wind shifted.
The fire danced.
Vince stared into the casket, as if he might see through the wood and into the madness within.
“Did he find out?”
Dominick’s fingers tensed on the flask. He looked past the flames, as though seeing some place not present.
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But he tried. And that’s enough for me.”
A long silence.
Then came another burst of laughter from the casket—higher now, frantic, the laughter of a man peeling away from himself.
Dominick watched the flames curl higher.
“Family is a red line,” he murmured. “Not Elena. And not her.”
Vince folded his arms. He studied his old friend in the firelight, then asked the question he’d held back for years.
“Do you still visit?”
Dominick turned his face slightly. And to Vince’s surprise, he smiled.
Not the cold grin of a predator.
But a tired, beautiful smile—like someone who had glimpsed a sunset he knew he’d never reach.
A private kind of joy, old and soft at the edges.
“She’s… adorable,”
Dominick said, the words nearly lost to the crackle of firewood.
His tone didn’t match the man. It was... gentle and soft.
Like something remembered, or dreamed.
He just stared into the flame a moment longer, as if the image of her was flickering there too.
Then he turned slightly, the firelight catching the edge of his face.
“Thank you, Vince. You’re a great friend.”
Vince nodded.
But his face was unreadable.
Not cold. Not warm. Just… still.
As if he’d heard something dangerous.
Not the words — but the part of Dominick that had spoken them.
The part that still made him human.
Soft, almost. Capable of kindness.
The part that ignored caution, discarded pragmatism.
Even a little.
The part that could ruin everything, even himself.
All for the sake of someone out there.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Vince said quietly.
A thud echoed from the casket behind them. A rasping laugh followed—sour, broken.
Neither of them turned.
Dominick just tossed another stick into the fire.
End of day one.
Air thick, but thin. Like breathing mud.
The darkness moves. Shapes press close — fingers of shadow crawling over my skin.
Whispers curl in my ears, soft as silk, sharp as knives. Names. Mine. Not mine.
I taste salt — tears? Blood? Sweat? All mixing on my tongue.
A flicker — a flash of light behind my eyelids. A face. Smiling. Watching. Gone.
The walls pulse. Slow heartbeat of wood, or mine? I can’t tell.
Hands reach through cracks — cold, clammy — pulling at my soul.
The breath-hole sighs like a ghost, inhaling me.
Voices call from beyond the box. Promise release. Or death.
My skin crawls. The box breathes with me.
I am falling. Falling through endless black.
Eyes open but see nothing. Close but still trapped.
I scream. Silence laughs.
Am I alive? Am I dead? Am I anything?
The fire in my chest flickers, drowning in the cold dark.
I claw. I fight. But the box is endless.
Day Two.
Julian’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
His eyes scream in silence.
Fingers claw the cracked concrete—
Digging, digging,
As if he could unearth the dark inside himself.
His breath is shallow, ragged.
A hollow laugh, broken like glass.
He rocks forward, back,
Waiting for the darkness to come back.
Because light... is a curse now.
Day Three.
“Even ... the dark ... got quiet.”
Day Four.
He awoke... but in a different place.
In the middle of the city.
At dawn.
No lid.
No box.
Just sky.
Light poured over him like fire from heaven—too bright to bear. The color of mercy. Of something not meant for eyes.
Julian blinked, shielding his face.
Then—voices.
“Hey… wait—wait, that’s the missing inspector!”
“No way. That can’t be him.”
“It is. That’s Julian Morelko!”
“Dear god… he’s alive.”
He sat up slowly. Shirtless. Caked in grime, scrapes, and something older than blood. His trousers were torn. His skin dry and bruised.
The air touched him like a blessing—
—and a curse.
A hand through fog. A dream’s breath.
He blinked at the people.
Then—
He smiled.
Wild. Tearful. Childlike.
“I’m alive,” he whispered.
He stood.
“I’M ALIIIIIIIVE!”
The shout rang through the streets. People froze. Turned.
He ran forward—arms flung wide—touching strangers, grabbing coats.
Laughing.
A man shoved him back. “Hey, what the hell—?”
Julian just laughed louder.
Eyes wide. Glassy.
He touched a woman’s shawl.
The cold stone of a bakery wall.
The air.
A puddle.
A child’s hand.
His own heart.
“Ohhh,” he breathed. “Beating. Still beating. Tick tick tick... that’s me... hello, me!”
He crouched and patted the cobblestones.
“You missed me, didn’t you? Don’t lie. I know stones can lie. But not you. Not you, hello... stone, stone, sweet murder stone...”
Then it cracked.
The shift.
Sudden. Shattering.
Laughter became weeping.
Weeping became screams.
He clutched his face.
Laughed again.
Screamed louder.
Fell to his knees, whispering nonsense.
“Can’t bury a man in a mirror,” he muttered. “They’ll claw their way out—ha! Claw, that’s good, write that down—no! No pen! He took all the pens!”
People stepped back. Silent. Uncertain.
Was this really the city’s famed inspector?
Then—
“Inspector Julian Morelko?”
Two policemen parted the crowd. One young, one older. Pale.
“…Sir. We’re glad you’re alive.”
Julian turned toward them—
Smiling so wide his face trembled, unblinking.
“Yes! Yes, I am! Alive! That’s me!”
The younger officer swallowed hard.
The older one stepped forward slowly, removing his coat.
“Here, sir…” he said quietly, draping it over Julian’s bare shoulders. “You’re freezing.”
Julian touched the coat like it was silk spun from heaven.
“Warm…” he whispered. “Not wood. Not nails. Just… cloth. Thank you, thank you…”
They exchanged a glance.
“Sir,” the younger one said gently, “do you… remember what happened? Where you’ve been?”
Julian looked up at him, eyes round and wet.
“I was under,” he whispered. “Not beneath. Not below. Under. Deeper. Where time… goes to bleed.”
The officers said nothing. The younger one flinched faintly. The older one’s jaw tightened.
Julian chuckled softly.
“Rabbits,” he added. “There were rabbits in the floors. And clocks. But no time. Just ticking. Just him…”
The officers hesitated.
The older one finally spoke, voice low, regretful.
“Sir… we’re sorry, but… we have to bring you in."
"There’s… there’s a warrant for your arrest. For the deaths of your bodyguards. Michael and Diaz.
"Your fingerprints... were all over the bodies and the knife used to kill them.”
He paused. Swallowed.
“But we’re looking into it. We believe you may have been… framed.”
"We will talk and find a way. We believe in you, sir."
Still. No anger. No shock.
Julian suddenly opened his arms—and hugged the older officer tightly.
“Yes! Yes! Take me! Please! Anywhere! A jail, a cell, a shoebox—I don’t care, as long as it’s not a casket! As long as it’s away from him! Do you understand? Do you—do you understand!?”
He backed away, shaking his head.
“No, not his box. His boxes have teeth.”
The officers blinked.
“…Sir?”
“Shhh—shhhhht—don’t say his name! He hears it. He hears everything."
"Even whispers. Even dreams."
"He makes caskets that hum at night…”
His voice cracked.
He sobbed mid-sentence.
Collapsed into the officer’s arms.
The crowd watched in silence.
Horrified. Confused. Heartbroken.
This was Julian Morelko.
The man from the papers.
The detective who uncovered the Rose Alley murders.
The one who brought down the Chemist.
Now barefoot, shirtless, muttering about rabbits and caskets.
Then—
His eyes froze.
Locked.
He stared past the crowd.
Past the market stalls.
Past the noise.
There.
Him.
A figure.
Walking slowly.
Dressed in black.
Blonde. Glasses. Tall. Composed.
Facial hair grown from the days he vanished.
So still he made the wind retreat.
Even the birds stopped singing.
Shadows recoiled like children scolded.
Julian’s breath hitched.
His pupils shrank.
His smile withered.
His voice dropped to a whisper—almost reverent.
“…he buries the ones who talk.”
“…he doesn’t need shovels.”
A shiver rolled through his body.
“Boxes,” Julian murmured. “He has boxes. Rows of them. Lined up… waiting.”
His lips barely moved now.
“Wood lined with silence. Hinges oiled with blood.”
His hands clawed at the ground. Nails split.
“…he doesn’t kill you. He closes you.”
The figure kept walking. Calm. Casual. Inevitable.
Two officers at the edge of the market noticed him approaching. They stiffened.
They knew that man.
They knew the name.
They had nothing on him.
And they knew better than to try.
Still, their eyes flicked toward the inspector—shirtless, broken, sobbing in the dirt.
Anger bloomed in their chests. Quiet but growing.
Dominick stopped a few paces away. Lifted his gaze.
“Gentlemen,” he said, smooth as polished stone.
He looked toward Julian, watching the man tremble like a leaf under frost.
“Do you know a shop nearby that sells shovels?”
The word cut the air like a scalpel.
Julian screamed.
“NO! NO! NO! PLEASE!”
He buckled again, shrieking, trying to curl deeper into the street like he could vanish into the cobblestones.
Gasps from the crowd.
Eyes turned. Then turned away.
Whispers. Silence.
No one wanted to understand.
It was safer not to.
Dominick’s expression remained flat, unimpressed.
“What is wrong? I need it for a friend’s garden.”
Julian convulsed.
“PLEASE! NO! I’LL BE GOOD! I SWEAR! I SWEAR I’LL BE GOOD!”
One officer stepped forward. “What did you do to him?”
Dominick’s gaze turned to him.
Blank. Unmoving.
“Ask him.”
A taut silence followed. The second officer squared his shoulders.
“We don’t take kindly to threats. Even from men in nice coats.”
Dominick said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just stood.
Still.
The tension was brittle.
Then—
Julian sprang like a rat out of fire.
He sank his teeth into the officer’s shoulder, flailing with piss-stained fists.
A raw, senseless frenzy.
“DON’T TOUCH HIM!” he shrieked. “YOU WANT TO END UP LIKE ME?!”
“What the hell— Calm down! We’re here to help!”
“HELP YOURSELF FIRST! STAY AWAY FROM HIM!”
The officers tried to restrain him, but he kicked and screamed.
Then came the words.
Torn from his throat like a curse:
“FROM THE UNDERTAKER !!!"
Silence.
A ripple of dread.
The name struck. It echoed.
"Undertaker."
It sank deep into the crowd.
Faces paled.
Murmurs passed like falling ash.
They thought of the caskets.
The whispers.
The man who walked like a funeral.
And now the name had a face.
Julian kept screaming as they restrained him, still swinging at them clumsily and cuffed him.
Dominick raised a brow, almost politely.
Then, quietly, almost cordially, he said,
“Shall I walk with you to the station, gentlemen? It sounded as though you were planning to bring me in as well.”
Before they could answer, Julian howled—his voice cracked and ragged, but clear enough to make the entire square fall still once more.
“I killed Michael and Diaz ! I confess ! Just keep him the fuck away from me !”
Dominick stood, hands in his coat pockets, unmoving.
The officers froze.
They looked at Julian—feral, broken.
They looked at Dominick—silent, calm, ancient.
And they made their decision.
“No,” one of them said. “Not today.”
Dominick gave a faint nod.
Then he walked away.
Like nothing had happened.
Like a man leaving a grave he didn’t need to dig.
There it is, dear readers. How Dominick got his nickname.
Not Elena and not her...
Any guesses on who Dominick is referring to here ?
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Thank you for reading :)
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