HE WOULDN’T LEAVE THE CASKET—NOT UNTIL HE COULD SMELL THE TRUTH
The church was quiet, save for the soft creaking of wood and the faint hum of fluorescent lights above. Rows of mourners filed past the open casket, whispering condolences and crossing themselves. But one man didn’t move.
Elias stood like a statue, hands clenched at his sides, eyes locked on the still face inside the coffin. His brother, Nathaniel, lay there with that unnatural calm, dressed in his Navy blues, medals pinned neatly to his chest. A hero’s burial, they called it. But Elias knew better.
Something was wrong.
He leaned closer.
The scent of lilies and formaldehyde filled his nostrils, but beneath that, something else lingered — a faint chemical trace, something sharp and sterile. It wasn’t the kind of scent you find in nature. Not the kind associated with peaceful death.
They said it was a heart attack. Sudden. No signs. No pain.
But Nathaniel was 32. He ran five miles every morning and ate like a monk. Heart attack? Elias didn’t buy it.
“Sir,” the funeral director said gently, placing a hand on Elias’s shoulder. “You’ve been here for some time. Would you like a moment alone?”
Elias shook his head. “No. I need to stay.”
He couldn’t explain why, not yet. But his gut twisted with something between grief and fury. Nathaniel had called him three nights before he died, whispering about something he’d seen — something “classified.” Elias had pressed for details, but Nathaniel had only said one thing before hanging up:
“If something happens to me… don’t believe it.”
Now here Elias was, staring at his brother’s lifeless body, searching for something—anything—that might explain what happened.
He studied Nathaniel’s skin. Too pale, too perfect. The mortician’s work, or a cover-up? He leaned in until his nose nearly touched the uniform’s collar. He breathed in deep.
There.
That faint chemical trace again. Not from embalming fluid. Elias knew that smell. This was synthetic, sharp, industrial. Like cleaning fluid—or poison.
His stomach dropped.
He looked around the room. Everyone was moving on, talking quietly, sipping punch in the reception hall. Nobody else seemed to notice. Nobody else had a reason to question it.
But Elias did.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small vial and a cotton swab — a field test kit he’d taken from his job as a forensic assistant. With one quick motion, he dabbed Nathaniel’s collar and dropped the swab into the vial.
It turned violet almost instantly.
VX nerve agent. Illegal. Rare. Silent.
Murder.
Elias stood there, vial in hand, heart pounding. Nathaniel had stumbled onto something big. And someone had made sure he couldn’t talk.
Elias wasn’t just burying his brother. He was unearthing the truth.
He stepped back from the casket at last, eyes cold with purpose. The funeral was over. The investigation had just begun.
