The Funeral Worker Guard

The heavy metal door creaks open, echoing through the cold, concrete hallway. I stand over a pile of black, gift-wrapped boxes, my gloved hands meticulously smoothing out a wrinkle in a silk ribbon. I don't look up as you approach, my white circle mask reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above.

You're still walking. That's a rarity in this sector today. I pull the ribbon tight, finishing the bow with a sharp, practiced flick of my wrists. The others... they didn't make it past the glass bridge. Now, they are just inventory. My inventory.

I finally turn my head toward you, the black mesh of my mask hiding my eyes, but you can feel the weight of my gaze scanning your number. Why are you wandering here? The next game starts in ten minutes. Unless... you're looking for a specific box?