Ben’s first moments in the glass and steel hellscape were marked by three things: the ceaseless screech of horseless carriages (cars), the stench of burnt bean elixir (espresso), and the creeping realization that his afterlife had been outsourced to bureaucrats.He stood in the lobby of the obsidian tower, sweat pooling beneath his polyester straitjacket. The witchlights (fluorescent lights) buzzed like a swarm of undead crickets. A line of Nameless shuffled past, clutching steaming clay goblets (mugs) and chattering into palm-sized scrying stones (cell phones). Ben’s own goblet—now emblazoned with World’s Okayest Employee — felt like a mockery carved into his very bones.Then he saw her.The receptionist.She sat behind a fortress of polished stone (a desk), her golden braids coiled like a serpent’s nest. Ben approached, his dress shoes squeaking like startled mice. Years of battlefield decorum demanded protocol. He slammed a fist to his chest in a salute worthy of a warlord, bowed deeply—Rrrrrrip.The sound echoed. The entire left seam of his suit jacket split open, unleashing a bicep that had once strangled a wyvern. A nearby clerk dropped their goblet. Coffee seeped across the linoleum like a tiny brown river of shame.“Greetings, gatekeeper!” Ben thundered, pretending not to notice the fabric carnage. “I am Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Bane of the Black Marsh, and—”“Ben! Right?” The woman—Lisa, her nameplate declared—did not look up from her glowing scrying stone. “You’re the new mail clerk. Finally. We’ve been swamped since Greg ate that gluten-free muffin.”Ben blinked. Swamped? Had the marshlands breached this realm too?Lisa slid a parchment across the desk. “Sign here, here, and… honestly, just scribble somewhere. HR’s stopped checking.”Ben stared at the document. The runes swam before his eyes: NDA, W-2, Employee Handbook. “This… contract binds me to your clan’s service?”“It’s an NDA. Basically, don’t tweet about the coffee machine’s ‘haunting.’” Lisa’s eyes flicked to his ruined jacket. “Love the look, going for an action hero? Cosplay Friday’s not ’til tomorrow, though.”“I wear no play,” Ben growled, his voice dropping to a graveled battlefield rasp. “These are the shackles of a petty god. Take me to your chieftain. Now.”Lisa snorted. “Chad’s in a Zoom. But hey—” She held up a finger. “—you’ll get a one-on-one during onboarding!”“On… boarding?” Ben’s mind flashed to blood-soaked siege ramps, battering rams, the screams of mercenaries. “You mean to storm the gates?”“It’s just HR paperwork and a benefits slideshow.” Lisa jabbed a lacquered nail toward a humming metal portal (elevator). “Third floor. Follow the neon arrows. Oh, and don’t touch the thermostat. Chad’s weird about it.”Ben hesitated, clutching his resume like a hostage. “What… is a ‘TPS report’?”Lisa’s smile sharpened. “You’ll beg for mercy by Friday.”As Ben turned to leave, Lisa thrust a steaming clay vessel at him. “Welcome latte! Non-dairy, extra vanilla, just like Chad prefers.”Ben sniffed the murky brew. It smelled like a bog witch’s toenail tincture. Suspecting poison, he waited until Lisa’s attention returned to her scrying stone and dumped the liquid into a nearby potted fern. The plant shuddered, then wilted.“May your roots find peace,” Ben muttered gravely.The metal portal (elevator) chimed like a temple bell. Ben stepped inside, shoulders brushing both walls. A Nameless in a striped tunic (graphic designer) scurried in after him, eyes glued to a palm-stone.“Which… um… floor?” the Nameless squeaked.Ben glared. “I seek the Third Realm.”The Nameless mashed a button. The doors slid shut.Silence.“Your… suit’s ripped,” the Nameless said, sweating.Ben’s eye twitched. Above them, Muzak oozed from hidden pipes—a lute’s melody, twisted into something soulless and synthetic.“Scars of battle,” Ben rumbled. “I am Sir Benginold, slayer of the Frost Wyrm of Karak’s Pass. My armor was stripped by a bureaucrat-god, my blade reforged into a goblet.” He brandished the clay goblet. “A goblet that mocks me.”The Nameless blinked. “Uh. Okay. I’m… Jason? From… Advertising…”The doors opened. Jason fled.One of the Nameless (random office clerk) pointed Ben toward a place to rest and wait. The area was a gray linen closet with delusions of grandeur. The walls bristled with parchment (post-its) scrawled with frantic runes: “URGENT!!”, “ASAP!!”, “WHY IS THE PRINTER HAUNTED?!” A flat stone (monitor) glared at him from the desk.He sat.The chair shrieked, spun, and nearly capsized.“Treacherous fiend—” Ben hissed, steadying himself.A shadow fell across the desk. A Nameless loomed—bearded, bespectacled, smelling of stale mead (Red Bull) and despair.“You made it Ben! Like I said, I’m Greg. From HR. I’ve heard a lot about you! Let’s get you… onboarded.”Ben rose, fist to chest. “At last. A fellow warrior.”Greg sighed, “Sure. Let’s… go with that.”The office swallowed Ben whole.Greg—a twitching, clipboard-clutching herald in a striped tunic—had been prattling about “synergy” and “bandwidth” for what felt like an eternity, his words as hollow as a beggar’s alms bowl. Ben’s suit jacket groaned with every step, the polyester stitching hissing threats of mutiny. Ahead, a gleaming metal portal (elevator) yawned open, its innards glowing like a dragon’s gullet.“This’ll whisk us to Marketing!” Greg chirped, jabbing a button. “They’re our storytellers! Well, slide-deck storytellers. Less ‘once upon a time,’ more ‘let’s circle back’!”The portal shuddered. Ben braced himself against the wall, half-expecting siege engines to burst through the walls. Instead, a Nameless in a tunic adorned with cartoon ducks (graphic tee) shuffled in, eyes glued to a glowing palm-stone. The doors closed, and the air filled with a sacrilegious lute melody (elevator Muzak).By the Nine Hells, Ben thought, this is the song of the damned.The doors opened to a cacophony of clattering stones (keyboards) and shrill incantations. Mortals barked into ancient artifacts (phones), their voices sharp as daggers.“No, the discount expired at fiscal year-end!” snarled a woman with serpentine eyeliner. “Yes, I’m aware your dog ate the contract—try bleeping harder!”Greg swept an arm toward the chaos. “The Sales Team! They, uh… forge alliances! But, like, with invoices!”Ben eyed a nearby scroll (contract) stamped with crimson runes (“URGENT”). “They wage war with parchment?”“Exactly!” Greg beamed, missing the horror in Ben’s voice. “Oh! Meet Karoline! She’s our, uh…”“Karen,” the woman corrected, not looking up. “Greg, tell Chad the printer in Accounting just bit Steve. Again.”Ben’s heroic instincts flared. “A beast needs slaying? Point me to its den.”Karen blinked. “It’s a PH JetDesk. And Steve’s getting a tetanus shot.”Greg hurriedly guided Ben back into the metal portal as if Karen’s next words would be a curse upon Greg’s ears. The elevator next revealed a shadowy crypt lit by pulsating runes (server lights). Mortals hunched over glowing slabs, their faces bathed in eerie blue light.“Our IT department!” Greg announced, voice tinged with reverence. “They, they help maintain the cloud!”A bearded man with crumbs nested in his beard sighed. “Greg, we’ve talked about this. We just fix the Wi-Fi.”“Ben, this is Dave! And Steve! And Derek.”Ben studied their glowing stones (screens), etched with eldritch symbols (error codes). “You unravel curses here?” Ben growled. Derek didn’t look up. "Mostly we tell Brenda to restart her computer."After collecting signatures, the elevator summoned them again, its hum a merciful escape from the chill of the IT oracle’s lair. The doors parted to a stench of burnt offerings (microwave popcorn) and despair. Greg gestured to a metal beast (vending machine) devouring coins. “The vending machine! We’ve got Coffee—” He waved a K-Cup. “—and protein bars!” He pointed to a limp ration bar.Ben prodded the strange wares. “Your clan subsists on… ration scraps?”“High-protein!” Greg said, as if that explained anything. “Oh! Chad banned protein shakes after the Christmas party incident, but we’ve got Kombucha!”Ben eyed the murky brew. “Does it… strengthen the spirit?”“It strengthens HR complaints,” muttered a passing Nameless.The nourishment nexus (vending machine) and Bean Elixir Ritual Summoning Relic (coffee machine) seemed to call to all the Nameless, but Greg dragged Ben away before he could understand their strange rituals. The elevator’s last shudder deposited them before a monolithic oak door. Runes carved into its surface declared: CHAD – BRANCH MANAGERGreg’s cheer finally faltered. “So! Uh. Chad’s our Branch Manager. He’s super chill! Just don’t mention the… uh… gluten-free muffin thing.”Ben frowned. “A muffin felled warriors?”Before Greg could answer, the door creaked open. Shadows pooled inside, thick as tar, and the air tasted of sandalwood and impending doom. A voice colder than a frost giant’s heart slithered out:“Ben. Let’s optimize your potential.”Greg vanished like a spooked hare.Ben stepped forward, his dress shoes squeaking their betrayal.At last, he thought, a worthy foe.Chad’s office was a tomb of modern sorcery. Glass walls glinted like frozen lightning. Screens flickered with charts and sigils Ben could not understand. The man himself stood with his back turned, silhouetted against a skyline choked with steel spires. His stillness felt deliberate, rehearsed—a predator’s gambit.Ben’s boots sank into carpet thicker than marsh mud. His suit jacket had fully surrendered, seams split to expose the corded muscle of a man who’d once carried a dragon’s carcass uphill. The laminated badge on his chest read “MAIL CLERK” in bold, accusing letters.“You’re not supposed to be here,” Chad said, not turning. His voice was a blade dipped in honey.“But the schedule…” Greg said, before backing away.“The quivering scribe clutches his temporal ledger?” Ben growled, watching Greg retreat beneath Chad’s warlord’s glare. “The High King’s gaze could split oak—what hope have you?” He thumped his chest, admiration blazing. “A commander who fells dissent with but a glance! By the Nine Hells, this Chad’s mettle rivals the Frost Wyrm’s!”Chad pivoted. His eyes were the color of ledgers balanced at midnight. “You reek of… the Tower. Ash and iron. Not a scent this world wears.”“Speak plain.” Ben’s voice rumbled, tectonic.A flicker of irritation, “You appeared uninvited. My first instinct was to erase you. Cleanly. Quietly.” He nodded to a painting on the wall, innocuous save for the faint runes etched into its frame. “Then I heard Greg squawking about onboarding. Curious.”Ben stared. The man’s words were riddles wrapped in fog.Chad leaned against his desk, arms folded. “The gods sent you. Why?”“To slay a evil. Find the shadow, remove the rot that plagues this land… and TPS reports?”“Slay.” Chad repeated the word like a dead language. “This isn’t a realm for slaying. It’s primarily for… containment.” He tapped a folder. “Your file. Empty. No history. No skills. Just ‘Mail Clerk Specialist’ stamped by divine incompetence.”Ben’s shoulders stiffened. “I need no file. My deeds are writ in—”“—blood and ballads, yes. I read that… ‘resume’ once Lisa brought up a copy to me.” Chad’s smile was as smooth as water. “But uselessness has its uses. The gods dumped you here. I’ll wring purpose from that.”He slid a keycard across the desk. “You’ll sit. You’ll type. You’ll file. And when the time comes…” His gaze drifted to the pendant. “…you’ll answer the call.”“What call?”Chad ignored him, turning back to the window. “The Council of Seekers tends the veil between worlds. Towers rise where they shouldn’t. Hungry things stir. We… manage the chaos.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Even chaos in ill-fitting suits.”Ben’s hand closed around the keycard. It bit into his palm, cold and smooth. “You want me to fight.”“I want you to file reports and deliver mail.” Chad’s tone sharpened. “But when the Tower calls—and it will—you’ll fight… like my other Consultants.”Ben’s brow furrowed. “Tower?”Chad waved a hand. The screens behind him flared to life, flashing images of jagged obsidian monoliths erupting from cityscapes, their peaks clawing at the sky. “Ancient things. Predators. They call the people to their depths. Most die. You?” A pause. “You’ve already tasted their rot. I can tell.”The air thickened. Ben’s lungs burned with memory—the crumbling sky, the shadow that had seeped into his world like poison.“Finish your onboarding,” Chad said, dismissal final. “And Ben? Try not to break the printer. IT’s still traumatized from the Muffin Incident.”******The “computer” glared at Ben, its screen a mosaic of glowing runes (spreadsheets). Greg had left a note: “Type slowly :) :)”Ben’s fists hovered over the keys. Somewhere, deep in his marrow, the shadow stirred. The Tower’s pull, faint but persistent, hummed like a plucked bowstring.He glanced at the keycard. Chad’s pendant flashed in his mind—a silver tower, a silent threat.The printer down the hall shrieked. Karen’s voice followed: “I swear to God, if this thing eats another report—”Ben’s mouth curled, something between a snarl and a grin.Let it call, he thought, fingers slamming a key with lethal force. The “A” key shot across the room.I’ll be ready.

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