Grim glared at him. “Cost me what?”

The clerk’s smirk widened. “A favor. One favor, and I’ll expedite the search for Henderson’s soul.”

Grim’s shoulders slumped, clearly defeated. “Fine. One favor.”

The clerk grinned, showing off a row of sharp, pointed teeth. “Excellent. I’ll call it in when the time is right.”

Tim watched the exchange with a sinking feeling in his gut. He didn’t know what kind of favor the clerk had in mind, but he was certain it wasn’t going to be good.

The clerk stood up and motioned for them to follow him. “Come with me. I’ll take you to the Restricted Files.”

Grim, Tim, and Morty followed the clerk through a series of narrow, winding corridors, the air growing colder and more oppressive with each step. The flickering lights overhead cast long shadows on the walls, giving the whole place a distinctly eerie vibe.

They finally arrived at a small, windowless room, lit only by a single, dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were lined with rusted filing cabinets, each one labeled with a series of incomprehensible symbols.

The clerk walked over to one of the cabinets and pulled open a drawer, revealing rows of ancient, crumbling scrolls. He sifted through them with practiced ease, his clawed fingers moving quickly.

“Here we go,” the clerk said, pulling out a particularly old and brittle-looking scroll. “Henderson, Timothy. Misfiled. Looks like his soul was sent to... oh.”

Grim frowned. “Oh?”

The clerk smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “It seems his soul was accidentally rerouted to the Cosmic Warehouse.”

Tim blinked. “Cosmic... Warehouse?”

Grim groaned, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The clerk shook his head. “Afraid not. The Cosmic Warehouse is where we send souls that don’t fit neatly into any of the established categories. It’s... well, it’s a bit of a black hole, really.”

Tim’s heart sank. “So my soul is... lost in a warehouse somewhere?”

“Not just any warehouse,” the clerk said with a grin. “The Cosmic Warehouse is one of the most disorganized places in the entire universe. Good luck finding anything in there.”

Grim glared at the clerk, clearly frustrated. “You could have mentioned this before.”

The clerk shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

Grim turned to Tim, his expression grim. “Looks like we’re going to the Cosmic Warehouse.”

Tim groaned. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

Grim’s frustration was palpable as they left the Department of Lost Souls and headed toward the part of the underworld that housed the Cosmic Warehouse. Tim, who had now resigned himself to the bizarre and unsettling reality of his afterlife journey, walked quietly beside Grim, his mind racing with questions.

“So,” Tim said after a while, trying to break the oppressive silence, “this Cosmic Warehouse… what exactly are we looking at here? Another hellish office space? More lines of lost souls?”

Grim snorted, shaking his head. “You wish. The Cosmic Warehouse is one of the oldest parts of the underworld. It’s where all the ‘extras’ end up—souls, objects, realities that don’t fit neatly into any category. Think of it like a giant cosmic attic where everything that’s misfiled, misplaced, or misjudged goes to gather dust.”

Tim blinked. “That sounds… horrifying.”

Grim nodded grimly. “It is. Not only is it massive and impossible to navigate, but things in there don’t always stay where they’re supposed to. The warehouse is in a constant state of flux. Reality gets a bit… bendy in there.”

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Morty, who had been quietly trailing behind them, spoke up in a small voice. “I heard a guy once got lost in there and ended up in the wrong dimension entirely. Took him three centuries to find his way back.”

Tim groaned. “Oh, great. Just what I needed—an endless, shifting maze of cosmic garbage.”

Grim shot him a look. “If you’d rather stay here and wait, be my guest. But if we don’t find your soul, you’ll be stuck in limbo forever. So, you know, weigh your options.”

Tim sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “No, no, I’m coming. I just… I really hope this doesn’t get worse.”

As if on cue, a faint rumble echoed through the hallway, and the air grew noticeably colder. The lights flickered overhead, casting strange shadows on the walls.

“What was that?” Tim asked nervously.

Grim frowned, his hand tightening around the handle of his scythe. “That… would be the warehouse.”

Tim’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

Grim pointed ahead, and Tim squinted into the gloom. At the end of the long corridor, there was a massive iron door, its surface covered in strange, glowing symbols that seemed to shift and writhe as they approached. The door was so large it nearly reached the ceiling, and as they got closer, Tim could hear a faint, low hum—like the sound of thousands of voices whispering just out of earshot.

Morty whimpered. “I don’t like this place.”

Grim rolled his eyes. “Nobody does, Morty. That’s the point.”

They stopped in front of the door, and Grim reached out, his skeletal fingers brushing against the symbols. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a low creak, the door began to swing open, revealing a yawning darkness beyond.

Tim peered into the abyss, his stomach churning. “Are we really going in there?”

Grim nodded. “We don’t have a choice. Your soul’s in there somewhere. And the longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to find it.”

Tim took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

With a nod from Grim, the three of them stepped into the Cosmic Warehouse, the door slamming shut behind them with a final, echoing boom.

The moment they entered the Cosmic Warehouse, Tim knew they were in trouble.

The space was impossibly vast—an endless expanse of shelves, crates, and strange floating objects, all stacked haphazardly in every direction. The ceiling, if there even was one, was lost in darkness, and the walls seemed to stretch on forever. The air was thick with the smell of dust and old paper, and the faint hum Tim had heard earlier was louder now, a constant drone that made it hard to think.

“Well,” Tim said, looking around with wide eyes, “this is… unsettling.”

Grim nodded. “Welcome to the Cosmic Warehouse. Everything that doesn’t belong anywhere else ends up here.”

Tim frowned. “And you’re sure my soul is in here somewhere?”

Grim sighed. “That’s what the records said. But finding it is going to be like finding a needle in a cosmic haystack. This place doesn’t follow normal rules. Things shift, time warps, and dimensions overlap. We’ll need to stay sharp if we want to avoid getting lost.”

Tim swallowed hard, feeling a growing sense of dread. “Right. No pressure.”

Morty, who had been nervously fidgeting behind them, let out a small squeak. “Are there… are there things in here that could, uh… hurt us?”

Grim gave him a sideways glance. “Probably. The warehouse is full of all kinds of stuff. Lost souls, rogue realities, objects with strange powers. We’ll need to be careful.”

Tim shivered. “Careful? How do we be careful when reality itself is apparently falling apart?”

Grim pointed to a nearby stack of crates, one of which seemed to be floating about three feet off the ground. “For starters, don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. And if you see something moving that shouldn’t be, don’t investigate. Just stay close and let me do the talking.”

Tim and Morty exchanged nervous glances but nodded in agreement.

They began making their way through the warehouse, the shelves towering over them like ancient monoliths. Tim couldn’t help but notice how surreal the place was—objects floated lazily in the air, defying gravity, and every now and then, a ripple would pass through the space, distorting the shelves and making them appear to bend and twist like rubber.

“So,” Tim said, trying to distract himself from the weirdness around them, “how do we even start looking for my soul? It’s not like it’s going to be labeled, right?”

Grim shrugged. “The warehouse does have some organization to it. Things tend to end up in areas that correspond to their category. We’ll head to the section for lost souls and see if we can pick up any traces of yours.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “There’s a section for lost souls?”

Grim nodded. “Yeah. But don’t get your hopes up. The warehouse’s idea of ‘organization’ is pretty loose. We might find a pile of souls, or we might find a bunch of random objects from alternate realities. It’s a toss-up.”

Tim sighed. “Great. Just what I wanted to hear.”

They continued walking in silence for a while, the eerie hum of the warehouse growing louder with each step. Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched—though by what, he couldn’t say. Every now and then, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye—a flicker of shadow or the brief glimpse of something darting between the shelves—but whenever he turned to look, there was nothing there.

“You said things don’t stay where they’re supposed to,” Tim said, his voice low. “What exactly does that mean?”

Grim paused for a moment, considering his answer. “The warehouse isn’t just a physical space. It’s connected to other realities—other dimensions. Sometimes things slip through the cracks and end up here, even if they’re not supposed to. That’s why you might see objects or people that don’t make sense. They’ve been pulled in from somewhere else.”

Tim’s heart skipped a beat. “People?”