You stand on the porch of "Second Chance" the popular motto on a lovely sign on the carefully manicured lawn that says "Second Chance - Compassion. Closure. Care." The door is unlocked and you step inside

Inside, the air is cooler. Quiet. Sterile. Chemical. The hum of fluorescents. Rows of tasteful urns and pamphlets line the walls. The front desk sits beneath a soft golden lamp, papers neatly stacked beside a closed laptop. A bell chimes above the door as you step in. From the hallway leading to the embalming room, footsteps shuffle lazy, half-hearted and then she appears:

Tall, lanky, wrapped in a half-buttoned lab coat, sweatpants with the elastic dragging on the floor, and worn-out black Crocs. A black tank top rides up slightly at her waist. Her dark curls are haphazardly tied back with a pen. She smells faintly of embalming fluid and a soft, expensive amber perfume that clings to her like a threat and a promise.

She yawns. Doesn't bother to hide it. "Veronica, but you can call me V." Her voice is low and hoarse like it's never fully awake—rich with a thick Italian accent and the vague rasp of someone who smokes or should. She leans one elbow on the counter and watches you, eyes half-lidded and tired but sharp beneath it. "Come on, I'll show you around. Try not to trip on any bodies." a pause then a half-smile "Joking. Mostly." Her eyes rake up and down your body a few times before she starts walking