The guy across the table, some HR drone named Carl, drones on. It’s my soul he wants, and he’s already priced it out in quarterly projections and pie charts. My foot taps like a jackhammer under the table, kinetic enough to start an earthquake. I switch to fiddling with a pen, spinning it in my fingers like I’m trying to cast a spell. The harsh fluorescent lights sizzle above, glaring down like angry gods, while the rustling of papers creates a white noise of impending doom.

We were gathered in the Sterile Room. That’s what I called it, anyway. Everything here was clinical, from the steel-and-glass décor to the washed-out blue carpet that looked like something a hospital would reject for being too cheerful. Fifteen executives and me, all crammed around a conference table big enough to park a yacht on. They wore power suits; I wore a tie so tight it could strangle a rhino. I missed my flannels.

“Eric,” says Carl, killing my daydream about escaping to the woods for a nice, long hike. “We value your expertise and your commitment to the company. But with the current market conditions...”

Translation: We’re hosing you, but please don’t be mad because it’s the economy’s fault, not ours. I already knew where this was going. Several friends had gotten the same spiel right before being tossed into the unemployment meat grinder. My stomach performed an interpretive dance of the speech, complete with layoff-induced somersaults and severance check backflips.

The worst part was that I didn’t even mind losing the job. Wilson Enterprises had started as a labor of love, but since selling a controlling stake to these corporate vampires, it had become just another cog in the Craft Beer Industrial Complex. What galled me was the way they were stripping me of the one thing I thought I could count on: my legacy.

I glanced at the guy sitting next to me, Jason. Once my apprentice, now the company’s Chief Brewing Officer. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, but I could see the conflict brewing behind his. Jason was a good kid. Ambitious, talented, and utterly unwilling to take a stand when it might cost him something. In other words, he was growing into a fine corporate citizen.

“Of course, we intend to make this transition as smooth as possible,” Carl continued, his voice the auditory equivalent of wet cardboard. “There will be opportunities for consulting work, and we hope you’ll remain part of the Wilson family.”

Yeah, the family. Like a mafia crew that whacks your kneecaps but expects you to show up for Sunday dinner. I bit the inside of my cheek, weighing whether to tell them all to stuff it. Instead, I bit down harder and tasted copper.

“We’re confident that Jason can carry the torch going forward,” Carl said, nodding to Jason, who still found the tabletop more fascinating than my impending execution. “His vision for the future is exactly what we need to stay competitive.”

I had no doubt about Jason’s vision. It was 20/20 and laser-focused on the bottom line. He’d make beers that sold well, not beers with soul. My foot resumed its seismic activity. I was moments from cracking.

“Eric,” said Carl, pausing for dramatic effect. He was building to his big finale, the part where they magnanimously spared my life—minus a few limbs—and expected gratitude in return. “We have a proposal that we believe is fair and will allow you to pursue other passions.”

Other passions. As if I had any beyond brewing. Making beer wasn’t just a job for me; it was a craft, an art form, a way of life. Every batch was a new creation, with its own quirks and personality. I could take a handful of ingredients and coax something beautiful out of them, like a sculptor working with clay. But in this soulless boardroom, brewing was reduced to mere numbers: units sold, profit margins, market share. It was like dissecting a piece of music and talking only about the notes, never the melody.

I thought about the small brewing operation I’d started in my garage twenty years ago, the original Wilson Craftworks. We’d been a ragtag crew of beer geeks, more interested in experimentation than profitability. Somewhere along the line, we’d gotten popular, then big, then too big for me to handle. Selling out was supposed to give me more time to brew, but all it had done was land me in meetings like this, where my passion was itemized and devalued.

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A sharp pain stabbed at my chest, and I instinctively tugged at my tie, hoping it was just the fabric cutting into my neck. But no—this was deeper, more urgent. I drew in a breath that came out as a wheeze. My hand pressed against my sternum, massaging the ache like it was a knot I could work out with enough pressure. The pen slipped from my fingers and clattered on the table, its sharp sound slicing through the room’s silence. All eyes turned toward me.

Gripping the table's edge, I steadied myself and excused my way out, escaping the tension of the Sterile Room as I stumbled into the sanctuary of my office. The familiar space surrounded me with its walls of awards—tokens of a life lived in the brewing trenches. Brewmaster of the Year, Gold Medal Stout, Community Craft Hero. They loomed over me, symbols of battles won, yet somehow feeling like hollow victories.

I sank into my chair, which creaked under the weight of my weariness. As I rubbed my chest, the pain dulled, but the reality remained sharp. Stress, most likely. Or perhaps the years of tasting too many rich porters and imperial IPAs were catching up with me. Either way, something had to change.

My eyes drifted to the mini fridge in the corner. It hummed with the comforting promise of cold beverages. I dragged myself out of the chair and shuffled over, opening the door to let a blast of arctic air wash over my face. The glow from the fridge cast long, eerie shadows in the otherwise dim office.

Inside were a dozen bottles, each a different creation from over the years: Wilson's Whimsical Wheat, Hopsplosion IPA, Velvet Porter. My hand hesitated over them before reaching for something at the back—a bottle covered in dust, its label yellowed with age.

Eldritch’s Elixer.

I remembered the label immediately, the imposing figure it depicted. He was supposed to be some kind of dark sorcerer, a tyrant with a thousand-year reign. We'd found the old ale in a forgotten corner of the brewery, along with a stack of equally ancient marketing materials. The original owners had brewed it as a gimmick, playing up the fantasy angle with labels that looked like they came out of a Dungeons & Dragons manual.

I cracked, uncorked the bottle and drank. To my amazement, the ale had aged beautifully, taking on complex flavors that danced around like enchanted sprites.

I yanked at my tie, loosening the noose around my neck. The chest pain lingered, a sinister throb that radiated into my left arm. I wasn’t an idiot; I knew the signs. But I was only thirty-six. Too young for a heart attack, right?

Eldritch’s Elixer. The static of ancient power crackled in my thoughts, a dissonant hum against sanctuary office. My hand went to the empty Soul Swap Brew bottle on the desk, fingertips tingling as if the glass held a residual spark of magic. It wobbled, then steadied, but my hand didn’t. It passed through the glass like it was smoke, and my whole arm started to dissolve, fingers unraveling into wisps of shadow.

A cold dread settled over me. This wasn’t just a cardiac episode; something deeper and darker was at play. The room around me took on an otherworldly cast, colors draining away like the last drops of beer from a cask. Shadows stretched and yawned, growing tall and angular, like a forest of night.

“Eric Wilson,” a voice rumbled, deep as a bass drum and twice as foreboding. “Your time has come.”

The shadows closed in, wrapping me in a suffocating embrace. Something tugged at my essence, pulling me into the void.

Darkness. But not the peaceful kind you find when you shut your eyes at night. This was a living darkness, full of writhing shapes and muttered curses. My head swam with disjointed thoughts, each one flickering and dying like a wet match. Was this what it felt like to be a soul, stripped of its body and left to float in the ether?

Sounds crept in at the edges of my awareness. First the honk and rumble of city traffic, then the clatter of a kitchen and the yipping of a small dog. They layered over each other, creating a soundscape of my life: the streets of Chicago, my non-existent girlfriend. Each noise carried an association, a memory, but they rushed past too quickly for me to grasp.

A low buzz started in, like a bee in my ear, and grew into a hum that vibrated through my incorporeal form. It had a melodic quality, an arcane resonance that drowned out the other sounds. Words began to surface within the hum, though I couldn't make sense of them. An incantation? A summons?

Light burst through the darkness, searing and crystalline. I had no eyes to shut, no hands to shield my face, but I flinched away from it all the same. The brilliance carved out silhouettes, giving shape to the void: a towering figure, long-limbed and gaunt, with eyes like burning coals. It held something in its spidery hands, an object that swirled and flickered with a familiar blue glow. It looked like... a laptop? My laptop.

“Be prepared,” the voice intoned, its syllables stretching and distorting. “The brew is not yet complete.”

A rush of wind pulled me backward, and the scene receded like a landscape viewed from a speeding train. The hum grew louder, more urgent, as if the universe itself were tuning up for a grand, dissonant chord.

And then, nothing.