"Miss Reilly." Tom materialized at her desk, his mustache practically vibrating with excitement. "Congratulations. You've processed all the rehabilitation-bound souls in your queue."

Piper looked up from her latest file, suspicious. In her experience, corporate congratulations usually came with a catch. Death, apparently, hadn't changed that fundamental truth.

"Thanks?" She waited for the other shoe to drop.

"We have a special assignment for you." Tom produced a stack of files that somehow sparkled. Actually sparkled. "These are our high-achievement cases."

"High achievement?" Piper took the top file gingerly. "You mean like, souls with lots of points?"

"Precisely." Tom's mustache preened. "These souls all scored over 10,000 points in life."

"Ten thousand?" Piper remembered her own measly starting score of 1,427. "What did they do, cure cancer?"

"Actually," Tom consulted one file, "Dr. Helena Wong did contribute to several breakthrough cancer treatments. But that only earned her 150 points."

"What?" Piper snatched the file. "She helped cure cancer and only got 150 points? I got 50 points just for adopting Grim!"

The cat in question appeared briefly, knocked over her pencil holder, and vanished.

"The point system," Tom said with dignity while straightening his bow tie, "values impact over achievement."

"But curing cancer had massive impact!"

"She did it for the recognition," Tom said simply. "For the grants, the acclaim, the Nobel Prize. The good it did was a byproduct, not the motivation."

"That's..." Piper trailed off, remembering all the rehabilitation files she'd processed. How surface-level good deeds had earned negligible points compared to moments of genuine connection and understanding.

"So what did earn these people their points?" she asked, gesturing at the sparkling stack.

"That's what you're going to find out." Tom's mustache twitched mysteriously. "Process these files. Look for patterns."

"This feels like busywork," Piper grumbled. "Just because I'm efficient at processing the rehab cases, you're giving me extra work?"

"Or perhaps," came Asher's voice as they materialized, their form shifting between what looked like various civil rights leaders throughout history, "there's something specific we want you to see."

"Great," Piper muttered as she opened the first file. "Cryptic cat, cryptic supervisor, cryptic guide. Is anyone here just going to give me a straight answer?"

But they had both already vanished, leaving her alone with the sparkling files.

The first one belonged to a teacher who'd earned over 15,000 points. "Okay, Sandra Chen, show me your secrets."

The world dissolved into memories.

Sandra in her classroom, year after year, creating safe spaces for students who didn't fit in. A gay teenager in the 90s, crying in her office because his parents wanted to send him to conversion therapy. Sandra helping him find resources, supporting him, showing him he wasn't alone.

Plus 1,000 points: Helping others embrace their truth despite societal pressure.

A trans student in the 2000s, terrified of coming out. Sandra connecting her with support groups, protecting her from bullies, being the adult ally she desperately needed.

Plus 2,000 points: Standing firm as an ally in the face of community backlash.

Decades of students, each finding in Sandra's classroom a place where they could be themselves. Where they could question, explore, grow.

Plus 5,000 points: Creating sustained space for authentic self-discovery.

"Oh," Piper breathed as the memories faded. "Oh, I get it."

She reached for the next file. A nurse who'd earned 12,000 points not for saving lives, but for holding space for dying patients to speak their truth. A librarian who'd earned 18,000 points for quietly ensuring banned books reached the readers who needed them most. A coffee shop owner who'd earned 20,000 points for making his cafe a safe haven for outcasts and misfits.

Pattern after pattern emerged. The highest-scoring souls hadn't just accepted their own truths – they'd helped others find and embrace theirs. They'd created ripples of authenticity that spread far beyond their immediate actions.

"The points aren't about what you do," Piper realized aloud. "They're about how you help others be who they really are."

Her own points ticked up by 100.

"Really?" She glanced at her total. "I get points just for figuring that out?"

Another 100 points.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous." But she was already reaching for the next file, eager to understand more. To see how these souls had managed to rise so far above the average.

Each story showed her something new. A father who'd earned massive points for accepting his gay son in the 1950s, becoming a secret supporter of the LGBTQ+ community. A Muslim woman who'd earned points helping other women find their voice in their faith.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The next file made Piper pause. "Reverend James Thomas, points at death: 35,427." She opened it, expecting another straightforward high-achiever story.

Instead, she found herself witnessing a lifetime of negative point accumulation.

Young James in seminary, memorizing doctrine: Minus 50 points: Choosing rules over understanding.

Pastor Thomas giving his first sermon about "love the sinner, hate the sin": Minus 100 points: Using doctrine to justify judgment.

Years of sermons, each one technically correct but spiritually hollow: Minus 25 points per sermon: Preaching without true understanding.

"Wow," Piper muttered. "And this guy ended up with over 35,000 points? What happened?"

Then she saw it. The moment everything changed.

Pastor Thomas was alone in his church late one night, wrestling with a crisis of faith. His daughter had just come out to him, and he was torn between his love for her and everything he'd been taught to believe.

"Lord," he whispered into the empty church, "I need guidance. I need to know what's right."

A black cat appeared in the moonlight streaming through the stained glass windows. It sat in a beam of colored light, creating a rainbow halo effect, and stared at him with unsettling intelligence.

"Shoo," Pastor Thomas said halfheartedly. "This is a house of God."

The cat didn't move. Instead, it began to purr, the sound somehow filling the entire church like a heavenly chorus.

"I don't understand," the pastor whispered. "Everything I've been taught says—"

The cat blinked slowly, and suddenly Pastor Thomas saw every person he'd ever turned away from his church. Every hurt soul who'd come seeking comfort and found only judgment. Every young person who'd left faith entirely because they'd been told God couldn't love them as they were.

He saw his daughter, praying every night not to be who she was, believing God had made her wrong.

Choice point, the voice whispered. Moment of divine truth.

"Oh," Pastor Thomas breathed. "Oh, Lord. I've been so wrong."

The cat's purring grew louder.

"Love isn't a doctrine," he realized. "It's not a set of rules. It's..." He looked at the cat, which was now somehow simultaneously in the moonlight and beside him in the pew. "It's love. That's all it ever was."

Plus 2,000 points: True divine understanding.

The next Sunday, Pastor Thomas took to his pulpit a changed man. His hands shook as he set aside his prepared sermon.

"My brothers and sisters," he began, "I've been wrong. We've all been wrong. God didn't give us doctrine so we could judge each other. God gave us love so we could lift each other up."

Half the congregation shifted uncomfortably.

"I've spent years preaching about a God of judgment, when I should have been preaching about a God of love. Unconditional love. Not love with footnotes or exceptions or fine print."

Several people stood up to leave.

"You can walk out those doors," Pastor Thomas said, his voice growing stronger. "But God's love will follow you out them. Just like it follows our LGBTQ+ siblings who've been forced out these same doors. Just like it follows every person we've ever turned away in the name of doctrine."

More people left. But some stayed. And some were crying.

Plus 5,000 points: Choosing divine truth over human comfort.

"From this day forward," Pastor Thomas declared, "this church will be a place of true love. Not theoretical love. Not conditional love. Real, messy, human, divine love."

Plus 3,000 points: Creating holy space for authentic souls.

The memories fast-forwarded through the years that followed. Every sermon earned points now. Every counseling session. Every time he chose love over doctrine, understanding over judgment. Week after week, year after year, his point total climbing higher.

The file ended with his last sermon, delivered the day before his death. The church was packed – not with the original congregation, but with every kind of person who'd never felt welcome in a church before. They'd found home here. Found love here. Found God here.

Plus 5,427 points: Lifetime of transformed ministry.

The memories faded, leaving Piper back at her desk, stunned.

"Holy shit," she breathed, then quickly added, "Sorry, God. If you're around here somewhere."

Asher materialized, their form shifting between various religious figures. "Interesting case, isn't it?"

"Was that really God?" Piper demanded. "The cat in the church? Because it looked an awful lot like—"

"The divine speaks to each soul in the way they can best understand," Asher said cryptically.

"That's not an answer."

"No," Asher agreed. "It's not."

Piper stared at the file. "So what, God's just... some kind of cosmic cat? Or cats are somehow divine messengers? Or..."

"Perhaps," Asher suggested, their form settling briefly into what looked like an ancient Egyptian cat goddess, "you're asking the wrong questions."

"Well, what are the right questions?"

"That," Asher said with a smile that contained multitudes, "is actually a very good start."

Grim appeared on Piper's desk, wearing what looked like a clerical collar instead of his usual bowtie.

"Oh, come on," Piper told him. "Now you're just showing off."

The cat began to purr, the sound filling the endless office space like a choir of angels.

Piper's own points ticked up by 100.

"Really?" she asked the empty air as both Grim and Asher vanished. "I get points just for questioning things?"

Another 100 points.

"Okay, okay," she muttered, reaching for the next file. "I get it. Question everything. Even the questions."

Somewhere in the distance, a cat's purr sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Piper sat back, letting the patterns sink in. The teacher creating safe spaces for students to be themselves. The nurse giving dying patients the courage to speak their truth. The coffee shop owner making space for outcasts. The pastor choosing divine love over rigid doctrine.

"They all chose love over certainty," she whispered. "Every single one of them. They helped others be authentic, even when it cost them something. Even when it meant losing half a congregation or facing community backlash or..." She swallowed hard. "Or losing relationships with family."

She thought about Sarah, about all the times she could have chosen love over certainty. All the points she could have earned by being a supportive sister instead of a judgmental one.

Her current points ticked up by 500.

"Okay, seriously?" She looked around for Grim, sure he was behind this somehow. "I can't just keep getting points for feeling bad about—"

She stopped, something clicking into place.

"It's not about feeling bad, is it?" she asked the empty air. "It's about understanding. Really understanding. Like Pastor Thomas with his daughter. Like Sandra with her students. Like..." She gestured at the stack of sparkling files. "Like all of them."

The next file in her stack began to glow.

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, reaching for it. "I get the hint."

But as she opened it, she couldn't help smiling. Maybe there was something to this whole "processing high-achieving souls" thing after all. Even if it did feel suspiciously like cosmic busywork.