The Corpse Tailor: Fashioning The Dead Novels & Stories

Something soft, stylish, his. ​ He crossed to the digi-wardrobe, a seamless panel of crystal that hummed faintly when he approached. ​ “Customize outfit,” he said aloud. “Breathable. Mid-thigh shorts, tunic-style top. Sheer but modest. Incorporate Zephyrian traditional designs—keep it respectful, nothing that violates custom.” ​

Thirteen men were found lifeless every week, which compels to be frightening in the view of a fact of what manner the killer has done upon ending their existence. The murderer broke off a hint on the victim's corpse, the similar patterns to be examined were visible to the lifeless prey, their covering being coated with a black tuxedo and a red polo shirt underneath. Pairing it with black slacks and black shoes perfectly fit the victims and bound with their branches nailed, the martyrs appear to be likened to a toy, particularly a doll.

“I just sat down.” “And now you’re standing up.” Ryden didn’t look up from his food. “Tailor. She’s here to fit you.” “For what, a coffin?” “For gowns,” he said, bored. “You dress like a ghost haunting the laundry room. It’s offensive.” “I work in a kitchen.” “You work for me.” I huffed. “That doesn’t mean I need silks.” “No,” Ryden said calmly. “It means you need to stop looking like a cursed librarian.”

It was a masterpiece of custom-tailored confinement. "Don't breathe so deeply, mademoiselle," the head designer, a stern Frenchwoman named Madame Laurent, murmured as she pulled a row of silk-covered pins from her wristband. "The bodice is structured to lift and hold. If you expand your chest too much, the silhouette loses its lethal edge." "Lethal," I repeated, the word heavy and bitter in my dry mouth. I stared at my reflection in the three-way vanity mirror Marcus’s team had rolled into the center of the room. "Is that what we’re calling a wedding gown now?"

This body is not hers, though it carries her mind like water in a vase not made for holding it. She pulls open the wardrobe door and finds row after row of gowns hanging in perfect order: deep blue velvet for formal meetings, emerald silk for dinners, black wool for mourning. She never wrote a mourning gown. Never planned for anyone in this story to die — death was for plot points, for raising stakes, not for characters she’d come to know. Her fingers brush over the fabric of the blue gown, heavy and well-made, stitching so precise it looks machine-done even though she wrote this world before such things existed. A small stain dots the hem — dark brown, almost black, like old coffee or dried

I exhaled sharply, it sounded absurd to me that he thought bringing me to a tailor’s shop was a form of preparation but then again, everything he said usually sounded absurd until he explained his strategy behind it. And sure as day, when the tailor came bustling through the door, rattling off prices, I saw they weren’t extravagant at all, they were practical and affordable. My entire body loosened up, I hadn’t even known I was wound up tight just being in this fancy place. “Fine, but I still don’t think this makes any sense to me.” “Your opinion is duly noted,” Damon replied dryly. The tailor was a talk, excitable man with slim hands, he circled me like a hawk, then his measuring tape flick

How was he still alive? Chad asked in shock, "Aren't you dead?" "Hmph, a smart man would never put all his eggs in one basket. How could I die so easily?" Koi laughed arrogantly and waved his hands toward the corpses on the ground. The bodies started to wiggle like worms and crawled toward Koi. The eerie scene and the smell of blood were bizarre and terrifying. "To deceive Balaro, I cooperated with you in that play. I was waiting for you to injure him so that I could become the leader of the Neuf Chrys Club! Let me reintroduce myself—I'm the Corpse Tailor, Koi Hadachi!"

She ground her bottom lip between her teeth and fidgeted with the buttons of Rhett’s jacket, wishing for a cigarette, and trying to puzzle out what the bodies would mean. “In my dreams,” she said slowly. “The bodies are dressed in old fashioned clothing. Not modern clothing. They are old corpses.” She felt the energy in the cab change as both men focused on her. “Describe the clothing,” Talen said, frowning. “I might be able to place the era.” Of course, she thought, she was sitting next to a walking-talking history book. “Umm. There was a woman in a long white shapeless gown, gathered at the neck with lace on the sleeves.”

"Oddities have to be investigated, or they would terrorize the next guy." Frank chuckled and gently opened the sarcophagus with one hand, gently putting the lid down. Inside lay a rotting corpse—unlike the others Syvlie had seen, this one was well-preserved as if the person had only died decades ago. Its blood-red clothes were also bright as new! However, Sylvie was left puzzled because the clothes and the corpse's coronet did not match. She had a keen eye thanks to her experience with relics and did not need thorough examinations to date any objects.

The new Taylor. My Taylor. It was a corset. Taylor Stern was wearing a corset. For me. There was a thin strip of tanned flesh between it and the black leather shorts. The corset looked like leather at a glance, but whatever the imitation material was made of was crimson red. The bodice was decorated with stitched patterns of the same color. Taylor was slender already, but it pinched in her waist all the more, which only helped to showcase her breasts in a way nothing ever had before. Upwards, outwards, lifting and thrusting and squeezing and bulging... her tits were a work of art. Literally, I think. They were spectacular.