Asher led Piper down a long hallway that kept shifting colors like a mood ring having an existential crisis. They stopped at a door labeled "Soul Rehabilitation Registration."

"Tom will be your supervisor," Asher said, gesturing to a man in a three-piece suit who looked like he'd stepped out of an old photograph.

Finally, someone normal, Piper thought with relief. She gave Asher an enthusiastic wave goodbye, but caught their flat look before they vanished.

"Welcome to Registration," Tom said, adjusting his handlebar mustache. "I understand you came in with... modest points as well?"

"1,427," Piper admitted. "But that's not terrible, right?"

"Oh, quite respectable," Tom nodded. "I arrived with 1,512 myself. Had to take this position to avoid rehabilitation." He straightened his bow tie. "Been working my way up ever since."

"How long have you been here?"

"Time works differently in the afterlife, but..." He checked a pocket watch that seemed to have several extra hands. "I passed in 1903."

Piper felt her non-existent stomach drop. "1903? Are you saying I'm going to have to slave away for hundreds of years to get out of here?"

"Language, Miss Reilly," Tom tsked. "We do maintain standards. Now, let me show you to your desk. We have quite the backlog of forms to process."

Grim appeared briefly on a filing cabinet, knocked over a stack of papers, and vanished.

"Ah yes," Tom sighed. "The cat. We've learned to work around him."

"You know my cat?" Piper gasped. "That's MY cat."

"Cats don't belong to anyone," Tom said dismissively. "He appears wherever he pleases. Been doing it for centuries."

"But that's MY cat," Piper insisted. "I rescued him from the shelter. I got fifty points for it and everything!"

Tom continued as if she hadn't spoken, leading her past rows of identical desks. "Your duties will include processing intake forms for souls entering rehabilitation. Basic data entry—birth date, death date, final point total, areas requiring improvement."

It was then that Piper noticed the different colored folders being sorted at a nearby desk - standard manila ones in one pile, and stark black folders with strange markings being quickly whisked away by different administrators.

"Oh, what are those for - murderers and serial killers and stuff?" She tried to peek at one as it passed. "Do I get promoted to the really juicy cases eventually?"

Tom's mustache twitched with clear disapproval. "They are... Something like that," he said stiffly. "Those cases require... specialized rehabilitation. Deep reconstruction of the soul itself. They go to a different facility entirely."

"Seriously? There's a special evil-souls division?"

"Soul Reconstruction Division," Tom corrected with a weary sigh. "And that's all you need to know about it. Focus on your own files, Miss Reilly."

He placed a stack of yellowing papers in front of her. "Start with these. And do try to keep up. The souls in rehabilitation can't begin their process until their paperwork is properly filed."

Piper stared at her first case file. "This can't be right. She lost points for... donating to charity?"

"Keep reading," Tom said patiently.

"Oh." Piper's eyes widened. "She only donated to get her name on the hospital wing. And she treated her employees terribly." She flipped through more pages. "Wow, she really was not a nice person."

"The point system sees through surface-level actions to true intentions," Tom explained.

"So what happens to these people in rehabilitation?" Piper asked, already imagining herself as a righteous reformer of lost souls.

"That's not your concern," Tom said. "Your job is to process the paperwork. Nothing more."

"But surely—"

"Miss Reilly." Tom's mustache twitched. "You are here to file forms. Period. Now, I suggest you get started. That stack won't process itself."

Grim appeared on her desk, sprawling across the papers she was trying to read.

"Get off," she muttered, trying to tug a form free. "Some of us are trying to work our way out of here."

The cat just blinked at her slowly, then began meticulously cleaning his paw.

Great. Eternity in a dead-end job with a micromanaging Victorian supervisor and her cryptic cat. This was definitely some kind of punishment.

But she'd show them. She'd process these forms faster than anyone. She'd earn her points and get out of here, and then maybe they'd see that she'd been right all along. After all, she was one of the good ones. These other souls clearly deserved to be here.

Right?

The first file looked innocuous enough. Just a manila folder, slightly worn at the edges, with a name printed in neat typescript: "Janet Miller, 1958-2024." Piper opened it, expecting more endless paperwork, more bureaucratic tedium.

The world dissolved.

And then... everything. Janet Miller's entire life cascaded through Piper's consciousness in a rush that felt both instantaneous and endless. Sixty-six years of memories, thoughts, and feelings flooding in at once.

She saw Janet as a curious child, always asking "why?" until adults grew tired of answering. Janet at twelve, devastated when her father dismissed her concerns about pollution in their local lake. Janet at sixteen, learning that her favorite teacher had been quietly spreading racist conspiracy theories, planting the first seeds of distrust in authority.

The memories kept coming. College Janet, throwing herself into alternative medicine after traditional doctors failed to diagnose her chronic pain. Young mother Janet, terrified by her daughter's adverse reaction to a routine vaccine, finding comfort in online communities that validated her fears. Each moment building on the last, each choice leading her deeper into a web of alternative beliefs.

And now Janet in her kitchen, the counter cluttered with printouts from various websites, each covered in highlighted passages about vaccines and microchips and government control. She sat at her computer, furiously typing a Facebook post.

Somewhere in this torrent of memories, Piper realized something strange: she was processing all of it. Every moment, every choice, every rationalization. Her usually scattered thoughts were laser-focused, taking in Janet's entire life without a single mental wandering. Huh. Maybe being dead had some perks after all.

"What the f—" Piper tried to step back, but her body wouldn't move. She was there but not there, watching but unable to interact. Like a ghost, except she was already dead, so what did that make her?

"The sheeple need to wake up," Janet muttered, sharing another post about how the moon landing was faked. "I'm just trying to educate people. Someone has to stand up for the truth."

Minus 50 points, a voice whispered in her head. Spreading misinformation.

"Oh, come ON," Piper tried to say, but her voice didn't work here. "This is what I have to process? Some conspiracy nut who probably thinks the Earth is flat? This should be an automatic 'send to rehabilitation' case!"

The scene shifted. Janet at her daughter's soccer game, phone in hand, arguing with another parent about chemtrails. Her daughter scored a goal, but Janet missed it, too busy typing a reply about government weather control.

Minus 75 points. Choosing conspiracy over connection.

"Well, obviously," Piper thought. "What kind of mother—"

Another shift. Janet alone at her computer late at night, staring at a news article about a family who lost their child to a preventable disease because they'd believed anti-vaccine propaganda. Her finger hovered over the share button, ready to post her usual rant about Big Pharma.

Choice point, the voice whispered. Moment of potential.

Janet closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and clicked away from the article instead. She opened her browser history and began deleting shared conspiracy posts.

Plus 100 points. First step toward truth.

The world spun, and Piper was back at her desk, gasping.

"What the actual FUCK?" She shoved away from the desk, the file falling to the floor. "Tom? TOM!"

He materialized instantly, mustache already twitching. "Yes, Miss Reilly?"

"What—how—" She gestured wildly at the file. "I was INSIDE her HEAD! With all her crazy theories and—and—" Piper shuddered. "Do you know what it's like to be inside the head of someone who thinks the moon landing was faked?"

"Ah." Tom adjusted his bow tie. "Yes. Soul processing requires a complete understanding of the subject's life experiences and choices."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Understanding? UNDERSTANDING? There's nothing to understand! She's just another internet conspiracy theorist who—" Piper stopped, a strange feeling creeping over her. "Who thought she was helping people by sharing what she believed was the truth."

"Indeed." Tom's mustache twitched.

"But that's different," Piper said quickly. "The things I share are actually true. I do research. I read articles. I—"

"File this one properly, Miss Reilly," Tom interrupted.

Piper pulled out the list she'd insisted on having written down, even though Tom had told her the knowledge would simply come to her as needed. ("I like things organized," she'd said firmly. "Just give me the list.")

She scanned the rehabilitation categories:

BELIEF SYSTEMS

* Reality Acceptance

* Confirmation Bias Reduction

* Echo Chamber Deprogramming

* Truth Seeking

* Fact vs. Fiction Processing

EMOTIONAL GROWTH

* Empathy Development

* Emotional Intelligence

* Attachment Repair

* Grief Processing

* Fear Management

RELATIONSHIP PATTERNS

* Connection Building

* Boundary Setting

* Communication Enhancement

* Trust Restoration

* Forgiveness Practice

SELF DEVELOPMENT

* Authenticity Training

* Identity Acceptance

* Self-Worth Building

* Purpose Finding

* Growth Mindset

"This is more complicated than I thought," Piper muttered, staring at her list of rehabilitation categories. She could still feel the echo of Janet's experiences: the searing pain doctors had dismissed for years, the medication that had made her symptoms worse instead of better, the relief she'd finally found in alternative treatments when traditional medicine had failed her.

"Echo Chamber Deprogramming is obvious," she said to Tom. "But... I get it, you know? After everything the medical establishment put her through, of course she didn't trust them. When alternative medicine was the only thing that helped her pain..." She trailed off, remembering the relief on Janet's face during her first acupuncture session.

Tom's mustache twitched expectantly.

"I still think she's wrong about vaccines and chemtrails," Piper added quickly. "But I respect that she thought she was helping people. Warning them about things she genuinely believed were dangerous. Even if those beliefs were... totally misguided." She tapped her pen against the list. "Reality Acceptance, definitely. But maybe not for the reasons I first thought."

She paused, an uncomfortable thought surfacing. "I wish..." she started, then stopped.

"Yes?" Tom prompted.

"I wish I could see my sister's life like this. The whole story, you know? See how my brother turned into..." She swallowed hard. "Maybe I'd understand better."

"Interesting," Tom said softly.

"Not that it would change anything," Piper added hastily. "I mean, facts are facts. But still..." She shook her head and returned to Janet's file. "This whole immersive thing makes it harder to just slap a label on someone and be done with it. Which is really inconvenient, by the way. I liked it better when I could just dismiss people as crazy conspiracy theorists."

"Did you?" Tom asked.

"No," Piper admitted. "But it was easier." She sighed and made her final notations on the file. "Reality Acceptance and Echo Chamber Deprogramming. But noting that her distrust stems from genuine trauma and negative experiences with authority, not just gullibility."

"Very thorough," Tom commented.

"Yeah, well." Piper reached for the next file. "Don't get used to it. I'm sure the next one will be more straightforward."

But even as she said it, she had a feeling she was wrong. Nothing about this job was going to be as simple as she'd hoped.

"Very good." Tom turned to leave. "Oh, and Miss Reilly?"

"Yeah?"

"The next file might be... challenging in a different way. Remember—your job is to understand, not judge."

"But she was wrong!" Piper called after his vanishing form. "Everything she believed was just... wrong!"

Silence answered her.

Piper looked at the next file in her stack with a mixture of dread and annoyance. "Let's get this over with," she muttered, reaching for the file. "Kyle Scofield. Died at age 52. Yeesh. Almost as young as me."

She opened the file, and again, the world dissolved.

What followed was... everything. Kyle Scofield's entire life poured into her consciousness like water, from his first memories to his last breath at his meticulously organized desk. Fifty-two years of existence flooding through her mind in what felt like both an eternity and an instant.

She saw four-year-old Kyle, proudly showing his mother the tower he'd built, only to have her immediately correct his technique, insisting the blocks needed to be perfectly aligned. Five-year-old Kyle, being scolded for fifteen minutes about a slightly rumpled bedspread. Six-year-old Kyle, learning that praise only came with perfection.

"A place for everything, and everything in its place," his mother's voice echoed through his memories, sharp with disappointment. "What will people think, Kyle? Do you want them to think we're slovenly?"

The memories kept flowing. Seven-year-old Kyle alphabetizing his books after being grounded for having them "carelessly scattered." Eight-year-old Kyle, developing an elaborate morning routine just to ensure nothing could be criticized. Nine-year-old Kyle, spending an hour arranging his desk because his father had commented that "disorder reflects a weak character."

Somewhere in the torrent of memories, Piper had an odd realization: she wasn't getting distracted. No wandering thoughts, no sudden urges to check her phone or reorganize her sock drawer. Her ADHD brain was actually... focused. "Well," she thought wryly, "at least being dead is good for something."

She watched teenage Kyle arranging his locker with military precision, college Kyle scheduling his studying into fifteen-minute increments, adult Kyle creating spreadsheets to track his spreadsheets. But now she understood - it had never been about the order itself. It was about avoiding criticism, avoiding disappointment, avoiding the sharp words that had shaped his childhood.

Then adult Kyle in his spotless office, every paper perfectly aligned, every pen exactly parallel, reviewing employee performance reports.

"Late again," he muttered, marking a red X next to an employee's name. "Third time this month. Rules are rules."

Minus 25 points, the voice whispered. Choosing policy over understanding.

The scene shifted. Kyle's employee, a single mother, trying to explain through tears that her son's medical treatments had been making them late. That she'd been making up the time, staying late every evening.

"The policy is very clear," Kyle said, his voice professionally neutral. "Three tardies equals a written warning. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them."

Minus 75 points. Refusing to see beyond the surface.

"Well, what was he supposed to do?" Piper thought. "Rules exist for a reason. You can't just—"

Another shift. Kyle at home, arranging his sock drawer by color and length. Everything in his house was organized, categorized, controlled. A photo on his dresser caught Piper's attention - Kyle with a woman, both smiling, but something was off about their posture. Too stiff. Too perfect.

Minus 100 points. Life unlived.

The scene changed again. Kyle sitting alone in his perfectly ordered living room, holding divorce papers. His wife's neat handwriting at the bottom: "I can't live in a box anymore. I need someone who can feel things, not just organize them."

Minus 150 points. Connection sacrificed for control.

"Okay, that's a little harsh," Piper thought. "Being organized isn't a crime."

But then she felt it - Kyle's crushing loneliness, hidden beneath layers of rules and routines. The way he'd used policies and procedures as a shield against messier human emotions. How every perfectly arranged drawer and precisely scheduled meeting had been another brick in the wall between him and authentic connection.

The scene shifted one final time. Kyle's last day alive. A heart attack at his desk, his final act being to straighten a stack of papers as he clutched his chest. His last thought: "At least my files will be in order."

Choice point missed, the voice whispered. Life spent hiding from life.

The world spun back into focus, and Piper found herself at her desk, fifty-two years of Kyle Scofield's memories settling in her mind like sediment after a storm.

"Fear Management," she said softly, before Tom could even materialize to ask. "That's the primary category. His whole life was shaped by fear of disapproval." She could still feel the echo of his childhood anxiety, the constant tension of trying to be perfect.

"And?" Tom prompted, his mustache gentler than usual.

"Connection Building." Piper's voice cracked slightly. "He never learned how. His parents taught him that perfect order was more important than human connection. No wonder his marriage failed. He literally didn't know how to let another person mess up his perfectly arranged life."

She stared at the file for a long moment. "I hope..." she started, then stopped.

"Yes?" Tom encouraged.

"I hope he gets another chance. A better one. Where he can learn that some of the best moments in life are the messy ones." She closed the file carefully. "It wasn't his fault, you know? He was just a little kid who wanted approval, and they taught him the wrong way to get it."

Tom's mustache twitched with what might have been approval. "You're beginning to understand the purpose of rehabilitation."

"Yeah, well." Piper reached for the next file, trying to shake off the lingering sadness of Kyle's lonely life. "I just hope in his next life, someone teaches him it's okay to build block towers that aren't perfectly straight."

She paused, her hand on the next file. "Do you think... do souls ever meet again? In their new lives? Because I'd like to think maybe his ex-wife..."

"One file at a time, Miss Reilly," Tom said gently. "One file at a time."

Something shifted in her chest - an uncomfortable recognition she quickly pushed away. After all, she wasn't anything like Kyle. Sure, she liked order, liked rules, liked things to make sense. But that was just being sensible.

Right?

Each file pulled her in completely, drowning her in lifetimes of memories and choices. A woman who'd lost points for prioritizing social media validation over real connection. A man who'd earned surprising points for small acts of kindness he'd forgotten. Each soul's story downloaded into her consciousness in that strange instant-eternity, complete with the ever-present voice tallying points and identifying missed opportunities.

After what felt like an eternity (was it? she couldn't tell anymore), she'd earned exactly 47 points.

"Forty-seven points," she muttered, staring at her total. "At this rate, I'll be here until the actual end of time."

Grim appeared on her desk, knocking over her perfectly organized stack of completed forms.

"This is hell, isn't it?" she asked him. "They just didn't want to tell me."

The cat started grooming himself, somehow managing to look smug.

"Tom?" she called out, for what felt like the hundredth time. "Are there any other workers here? I never see anyone else."

Tom materialized by her desk, mustache twitching with barely concealed annoyance. "Miss Reilly, as I've explained, other souls work different shifts."

"But when? I'm always here! There are no shifts!"

"Perhaps if you focused more on your work—"

"Is there a break room? A water cooler? Not that we need water, but somewhere to... socialize?"

Tom's mustache twitched harder.

"What about promotions? There have to be better positions. Faster ways to earn points."

"Miss Reilly." Tom's voice had an edge now. "Do your job well, and eventually, you may be considered for advancement. That is all."

"But—"

"That. Is. All."

He vanished, leaving Piper alone with her stack of papers and her increasingly suspicious cat.

"That's all you know about," she muttered, already deciding to find a better way out of here.