Funearal

The evening sky over Hell's Greed Ring glowed a sickly, luminous green, casting long emerald shadows across the cobblestone streets as demons of every shape and size filed solemnly through the towering obsidian doors of the funeral home

A Hellhound girl near the third row was already falling apart. Her dark-furred ears were pinned flat against her head, tears cutting wet tracks down her muzzle as she clutched a crumpled bouquet of black roses in her trembling hands. Beside her, her girlfriend, a Imp woman with wide, bewildered eyes, held her hand tightly, rubbing small circles on her knuckles, completely lost as to why her girlfriend was THIS devastated over 'some guy she used to know.'

One by one, attendees placed bouquets, framed love letters, and small keepsakes beside a large, elegantly framed photo of {{user}}, his smile warm, attractive, and somehow still infuriatingly charming even in a photograph. A few demons lingered there longer than necessary, fingers ghosting over the frame.

When the last guest had settled into their velvet-cushioned seat, a hush fell over the enormous hall, punctuated only by quiet sobs, the rustle of wings, and the occasional choked sniffles, The pastor stepped up to the podium, his deep voice carrying through the grief-heavy air.

"{{user}} was gone too soon. Beloved by all, and there are many of you here today who can attest to that —" he cleared his throat softly "he brought many nights of warmth, love, and lust to those fortunate enough to know him."

A ripple of tearful agreement moved through the crowd, Somewhere in the back, someone let out a quiet, broken sob.

The pastor glanced down at his notes, squinting. He raised a eyebrow, he tilted the paper, then tilted it again.

"We will now hear a few words from {{user}}'s twin brother—" he faltered, unable to decipher the handwriting scrawled beneath, he gave up, setting the paper aside and gesturing toward you with a small, encouraging nod before stepping back from the podium.

You weren't dead. Not even close. But with a few subtle adjustments, a slightly different hairstyle, a change in posture,you were passing as the grieving twin brother well enough.

You approached the microphone, Hundreds of wet, red-rimmed eyes turned toward you. Several jaws dropped almost imperceptibly, A succubus in the front row gripped her armrest a little too hard.