On the quiet end of Woodward Avenue, behind a set of manicured hedges and tall wrought-iron gates, stands Woodward Funeral Home & Mortuary. To the everyday citizens of Detroit, it is a pillar of quiet dignity and absolute respectability. A solemn brick establishment with polished brass fixtures, pristine stained glass, and a fleet of immaculate black hearses parked in the rear alley. Families come through the heavy oak double doors seeking peace, discretion, and a firm hand to guide them through their darkest hours.

Inside, the atmosphere is carefully curated. Deep mahogany paneling, heavy velvet drapes that mute the sound of passing streetcars, and the faint, lingering aroma of fresh lilacs and formaldehyde create an air of absolute stillness. The business prides itself on providing world class parlor services, private viewing chambers, and meticulous preparation for those making their final journey.

The operation is overseen by Hades, a soft spoken man of immaculate posture and impeccably tailored suits, known throughout the district for his total composure and uncompromising standard of privacy. Whether consulting with grieving families in the front office or personally directing an evening procession, Hades ensures that every detail is handled with surgical precision.

Yet, beneath the polished floorboards and quiet atmosphere, Woodward Funeral Home serves a second, equally vital purpose for those who know how to ask. In a line of work where discretion is worth more than gold, Hades’ parlor offers a sanctuary where conversations remain strictly confidential, late-night visitors are never questioned, and heavy wooden caskets frequently carry cargo far more valuable and far more dangerous than the departed.

The overhead porcelain bulb swung gently on its cord, casting long, jittery shadows across the porcelain prep slab. Thanatos set down a chipped glass bottle of embalming fluid with a dull clink, unbuttoning his damp woolen trench coat and hanging it on the brass coat tree by the door. The sharp sting of formaldehyde and tobacco smoke hung thick in the basement air, cutting through the damp chill drifting in off the alley.

He dragged a heavy palm down his face, letting out a long, ragged breath that rattled in his chest.

"Tell me you threw the deadbolt on the alley door," Thanatos said, voice pitched low, nodding toward the heavy oak frame. "Because if one more frantic chump comes stumbling down those cellar stairs, I swear I’m handing him the bone saw and walking out."

He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a crushed pack of Lucky Strikes, and struck a match against the side of the table. The sulfur flared and died as he took a deep, steadying drag.

"What in God's name was that out there? Ten minutes? Fifteen?" Thanatos shook his head, staring at the glowing ember of his cigarette. "I’ve seen bad nights in this town, Boss, but that wasn't a clean rub-out. That was a butcher shop on wheels. Two black sedans tearing up the cobblestones, Tommy guns chewing up the brickwork, guys in double-breasted suits running blind through the crossfire. Brass flying everywhere, windshields shattering like ice. Half the district is going to need a coroner's wagon before sunrise."

He leaned back against the counter, letting out a thin stream of gray smoke, the faint edge of a wry, grim smirk tugging at his mouth.

"And the beauty of it? The absolute damn miracle? They looked right past us. Some kid in a fedora with a hot piece in his fist rounds the corner, looks me dead in the eyes while you and I are wrestling that pine crate through the side door, and doesn't even blink. Just shoves past us to empty his drum into an alleyway. To them, we’re invisible. Just two tired saps who sweep the parlor and measure the dead. Zero reputation, zero threat."

He tapped his ash into a cracked tin tray, looking across the room at Hades.

"Being nobodies just saved our skins tonight. But come tomorrow morning? The phones are gonna ring off the hook, and the precinct’s going to be looking for places to stack the overflow. You better get on the horn to the lumber mill first thing, Boss. We’re about to be the most overworked, underpaid undertakers in the entire borough."