The cemetery slept under a thin veil of mist, the moon fractured behind drifting clouds. No guards this time. No flashlights. No voices.
Only shadows.
The gorilla-masked man crouched beside the freshly disturbed earth, scanning the perimeter. Every sense was sharp, every breath controlled. He lifted two fingers.
Now.
The monkey-masked figure slipped forward without a sound.
No jokes.
No commentary.
No laughter.
For once, he moved like a ghost.
The grave had been prepared earlier — loosened soil, the headstone subtly shifted. The monkey mask knelt, brushed dirt aside with gloved hands, and found the narrow opening. The smell hit first: damp earth, decay… and something else.
Something wrong.
He didn't hesitate.
He slid down into the darkness, feet first, disappearing into the grave as if the earth had swallowed him whole.
The gorilla mask remained above, motionless.
Watching.
Minutes passed.
Too many.
The night pressed in, heavy and listening. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once… then fell silent.
Then—
Headlights.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The gorilla mask melted into the shadows just as a black SUV rolled to a stop near the grave. The engine cut.
The doors opened.
She stepped out first.
Evelyn.
Not mourning black — precision black. The kind of clothing chosen, not felt. Her heels sank slightly into the damp ground as she surveyed the cemetery, her expression unreadable, her eyes sharp and measuring.
Behind her came Dr. Calloway.
He carried a sealed metal case in one hand. Medical-grade. Quietly humming. His other hand adjusted his glasses as his gaze darted around the graveyard.
"No security," he muttered. "You were certain?"
Evelyn didn't look at him. "I don't come uninvited."
They approached the open grave.
The earth yawned before them.
Calloway swallowed. "Once we remove him…" His voice faltered. "…there's no going back."
Evelyn finally turned to him.
Her voice was calm. Controlled. Deadly.
"He already came back once."
She knelt at the edge of the grave and brushed her fingers across the dirt — reverent, possessive.
"Bring him up."
Calloway opened the metal case. Inside were instruments that didn't belong in a cemetery — injectors, clamps, sealed vials, devices that hummed faintly as if alive.
They worked in silence.
The coffin lid was exposed.
Calloway crouched and pried it open.
The smell hit him instantly.
But it wasn't what he expected.
No rot.
No overwhelming decay.
His breath caught.
The body inside lay intact.
Too intact.
The skin hadn't collapsed. The features hadn't sunken. There was discoloration — yes — but not the kind that belonged to a man buried for a year. The flesh hadn't liquefied. The joints hadn't stiffened beyond reason.
It was… preserved.
Fresh.
Calloway's hands trembled.
That's impossible.
A year underground should have left nothing but ruin.
His medical instincts screamed. His training told him something was deeply, violently wrong.
He leaned closer.
The tissue still had elasticity.
His stomach twisted.
He straightened quickly, eyes flicking to Evelyn.
She was watching him.
Not the body.
Him.
Calloway swallowed the words burning his throat.
He said nothing.
Because men who brought her bad news never stayed men for long.
He lowered his gaze and continued working, his silence louder than any confession.
Evelyn stepped closer, peering into the coffin.
"Careful," she said softly. "He was always delicate."
Calloway flinched.
They began lowering equipment into the grave.
Above them, the gorilla mask shifted slightly, unseen.
Below them—
In the coffin—
A gloved hand pressed slowly against the inner wood.
Waiting.
Listening.
The coffin creaked as the lid opened wider from above.
Evelyn's shadow fell into the grave.
And in the suffocating dark, beneath her—
The monkey mask tilted upward.
Silent.
Still.
As Dr. Calloway felt his pulse race and realized something terrifying:
James Crowe didn't rot…
…because something never let him die properly.