Jace might’ve been the only official Chosen of Hades, but ever since they’d allowed Hecate—the goddess of magic—to plant her banner under the same roof, the Fields Below had undergone a transformation that was impossible to ignore.

What had once been little more than a desolate afterthought was now thriving. Hecate’s presence had drawn students like moths to a flame, swelling their ranks into the hundreds. Each newcomer brought their points and ambitions, reshaping the Fields into something both awe-inspiring and distinctly underworldly.

The caverns gleamed with crystals that pulsed faintly, as if the walls themselves had veins of living stone. Sanctuaries bathed in shadow sprouted up, places where whispers seemed to gather like secrets waiting to be uncovered. Then there were the gardens—if you could call them that—glowing softly with an otherworldly light. The plants looked more like something conjured from a fever dream than anything natural, their twisted blooms teetering between beautiful and unsettling.

Hecate’s influence was everywhere. Subtle, but impossible to miss. She had taken the Fields from a forgotten corner of Mount Olympus University to a sprawling, darkly vibrant labyrinth that hummed with life—and, let’s be honest, a fair amount of menace.

Jace couldn’t help but admire her handiwork. He might’ve been Hades’ chosen, but Hecate had turned the Fields into something people wanted to be a part of. If he was being honest, it felt less like he was running the place and more like he was just trying to keep up with her.

Jace moved through the labyrinthine passages of the Underworld, the sound of his boots on stone echoing softly in the dim silence.

Wisps of light and shadow flitted past him—spirits, their forms insubstantial and shimmering, like faint memories of something lost. Hades had always been clear on his disdain for the undead, calling them an affront to the natural order. But spirits? Souls caught in the fragile space between existence and eternity? Those, he welcomed.

Ahead, the faint glow of torchlight marked the entrance to the Underworld Offices, flickering like a neon sign beckoning him into something he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to deal with. Jace’s dorms, tucked deep beneath Mount Olympus, had a direct path to the offices. Convenient, sure, but stepping into the place was always an exercise in surrealism.

The door creaked open, and he strode into what could only be described as the Underworld’s version of an office building. Rows of cubicles stretched out before him, the gray dividers worn and sagging slightly. Each desk held the relics of bureaucracy: yellowing stacks of parchment, quills that scratched at papers of their own accord, and glowing, ethereal screens displaying arcane symbols that defied translation.

The spirits were everywhere. Some hovered at desks, their translucent forms flickering as they shuffled phantom papers or tapped at ancient keyboards that gave off faint whispers instead of clicks. Others floated through the aisles, carrying stacks of files that never seemed to shrink, their expressions a mix of focus and quiet resignation.

Occasionally, a ghostly figure would pause to tidy up a desk or scribble something on a scroll, their movements precise and deliberate. Whatever tasks they were performing, they did so with purpose—purpose Jace couldn’t quite make sense of. Maybe they were cataloging souls, balancing ledgers of life and death, or filing complaints about the conditions of the River Styx ferry service.

It was unnervingly mundane for a place that existed between worlds, but it brought an odd kind of order to the chaos. And maybe that’s why Jace didn’t entirely hate it. Here, in the heart of the Underworld, there was structure. A hierarchy. Rules.

The ghosts didn’t speak to him as he passed, their silence a constant hum in the air. But their presence grounded him. They were a reminder that even in the dark, even in the strangest corners of existence, there was a kind of logic. A rhythm.

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Up ahead, Jace spotted Jerry, his ghostly form faintly shimmering in the dim light. A small grin tugged at Jace’s lips—it was good to see him. For all the chaos in the Underworld, Jerry had a way of making the place feel a little less heavy.

Jerry—a ghostly figure with more personality than most mortals—was in the middle of what could only be described as a car-crash-in-slow-motion attempt at flirting with Barbara, the Underworld’s receptionist. Barbara, with her towering beehive hairdo and sharp, cat-eye glasses, had perfected the art of looking unimpressed.

“...and, uh, I was thinking, maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?” Jerry stammered, his voice oscillating between hopeful and please-stop-this-now panic.

Barbara arched one impeccable eyebrow. Her lips twitched, hovering somewhere between amusement and the kind of exasperation that could peel paint. “I’ll think about it,” she said, her tone cooler than a midnight ferry ride across the Styx.

Jerry turned at the sound of Jace’s footsteps, his face lighting up.

“Jace! Perfect timing! Been a while, huh?” Jerry called out, his translucent form flickering slightly as he jogged to meet him. Falling into step beside Jace, he floated more than walked, keeping pace effortlessly as they headed toward the elevator.

“Jerry,” Jace said, smirking as he took in the scene. “How’s the love life?”

Jerry let out a dry laugh. “You know how office romances go. Got a bit of a Will-They, Won't-They thing going as always.”

Jace just smiled.

Jerry floated backward a few inches, his hands spread wide in a theatrical shrug. “Love is a marathon, not a sprint.”

“Bit of a treadmill, in your case?”

“Harsh,” Jerry said, grinning faintly. “But fair.”

"I'm sorry, I'm just kidding, Jerry. You've got this," Jace said, smirking. "She said she’d think about it. That’s progress, right?"

Jerry’s face lit up, his translucent form shimmering faintly. “Yeah, another hundred years or so, I think we might have a real date.”

The two of them moved down the dimly lit aisle, passing cubicles where spirits flickered in and out of view. Jace gestured toward one particularly frantic spirit, whose attempts at organizing files were hampered by the fact that they kept slipping through its intangible hands. “Busy day in the afterlife?”

Jerry chuckled, the sound hollow and echoing like an empty hallway. “Oh, you’d be surprised. End-of-cycle quotas, reincarnation petitions, complaints from hauntings—it’s all part of the job. And don’t even get me started on the bureaucracy around exorcisms.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Jace said.

“Oh, it’s a riot,” Jerry said in genuine excitement.

As they reached the end of the aisle, the Underworld Elevator loomed before them. Its black iron doors were intricately carved with glowing sigils, each one pulsing like a heartbeat.

Jace smiled and clapped Jerry on the shoulder out of reflex, only to pause mid-motion when he remembered Jerry was a ghost. He half-expected his hand to pass through—but it didn’t. Instead, there was resistance, a faint but solid presence. His Soul Affinity flared, a sudden surge of awareness coursing through him, and the realization hit: he could touch ghosts.

“Good luck, Casanova.”

Jerry saluted, a half-hearted wave of his hand as Jace stepped into the elevator.

“Oh! Remember, Jace,” Jerry said, his voice echoing faintly as the elevator doors began to slide shut. “The only difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra.”

Jace snorted, shaking his head as the doors sealed with a soft thunk, separating them. He leaned back against the cool iron of the elevator and pressed the single button engraved with Hades’ sigil. The doors slid shut with a whisper, sealing him in as the elevator began its smooth, silent descent.

“Down we go,” Jace muttered, bracing himself for whatever came next.

Girl from Ipanema played softly, and Jace found himself nodding along to the familiar tune.