The darkness wasn't the end I expected. It wasn't nothing, either—just an endless, suffocating black that pressed in from all sides, thick and unyielding. No light, no sound, no sensation beyond the faint echo of my own fading thoughts. The pain from the bullets had vanished, along with the acrid smoke of the fire and the coppery taste of blood in my mouth. I should have been relieved, but instead, a dull panic stirred.
Was this it? An eternity of drifting in oblivion, replaying my failures on loop?
I thought of Yumi's face, her eyes wide in that last moment. And Kenji—his guilt finally catching up to him, too late to matter. If this was the afterlife, it felt like a cruel joke. No judgment, no peace. Just... emptiness.
Then came the pull.
It started as a subtle tug, like a current in still water, drawing me forward. Or upward? Direction meant nothing here. The void thinned, graying at the edges, and distant murmurs filtered in—voices overlapping, clipped and efficient, like a busy office on a Monday morning. My consciousness sharpened, piecing itself back together. The pull strengthened, and suddenly I was moving, accelerating through the gray until shapes resolved around me.
I materialized—if that's the right word—on a floor that felt like soft, yielding cloud underfoot. No jarring landing, just a gentle settling. I blinked, or at least it felt like blinking, and took in my surroundings.
An endless hall stretched before me, row upon row of identical gray cubicles fading into a hazy horizon. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow without shadows. The air was neutral—neither warm nor cold, no scent at all. People, or what looked like people, milled about in queues, some translucent like ghosts, others solid as I felt. They shuffled forward with resigned patience, murmuring in languages I half-recognized, half-didn't. No one screamed or wailed. No angelic choirs or fiery pits. Just... bureaucracy.
I looked down at myself. My hands were whole, unmarked. The apron from the restaurant still hung around my neck, stained with blood that no longer felt wet. I touched my chest—no wounds, no pain. But the memory of it lingered, sharp as a knife edge.
"Where the hell is this?" I muttered to myself. My voice echoed strangely, as if the space absorbed sound unevenly.
A soft chime drew my attention. Ahead, a line formed at a long counter, manned by figures in plain uniforms. I drifted forward, compelled by some invisible cue. No one pushed or complained. It was all so orderly, so mundane. If this was death, it was disappointingly ordinary. I'd imagined something grander—or at least more dramatic. Not a waiting room that could have been plucked from any government office.
The line moved efficiently. Before long, I reached the counter. The teller—a being of indeterminate gender, with smooth, featureless skin and eyes like polished glass—glanced up from an ethereal screen that hovered in the air. Their uniform was gray, blending seamlessly with the surroundings.
"Name?" they asked, voice flat and professional.
"Tanaka Hiroshi," I replied automatically.
The teller tapped at the screen, symbols flickering across it in a script I couldn't read. "Age at termination: Thirty-five. Cause: Multiple gunshot wounds, exsanguination, smoke inhalation secondary. Location:Tokyo, Japan, Earth realm."
I stared. "Termination? That's what you call it?"
"Standard terminology," they said without looking up. "Now, confirm recent events for verification."
They recited a clinical summary: the restaurant, the sake, Kenji's arrival, the argument, the intruders. Each detail landed like a punch, stripping the horror to bare facts. Yumi's death reduced to "collateral victim." Kenji's to "associated casualty."
"Yes," I said, throat tight. "That's... what happened."
"Processed." The teller nodded. "Welcome to the Office of the Dead, soul designate Tanaka Hiroshi. This is the transitional hub where lives are reviewed and paths assigned."
I leaned on the counter, suddenly needing support even though my body felt weightless. "Paths? Like heaven or hell?"
The teller almost smiled—almost. "Not in those terms. Deeds determine outcomes. Great virtues lead to elevated realms or guided reincarnations. Great evils to corrective voids or dissolution. Most, like you, fall in the middle: unremarkable balance."
"Unremarkable." The word stung more than it should. My life boiled down to mediocrity. "So what happens to the middles?"
"Options include random reincarnation—new life, no memories—or gradual fading into the cosmic ether. Rare cases attract patrons—entities from higher planes—who may offer sponsored rebirths."
Patrons. Higher planes. It sounded like a bad fantasy novel. But then, dying in a terrorist attack wasn't exactly realistic either.
The teller continued typing. "Reviewing your ledger now."
As they worked, memories flooded me unbidden, as if the place itself pulled them to the surface. It started with the academy again—that golden time before everything soured.
I saw myself at eighteen, knife in hand, slicing sashimi with precision that made instructors nod approvingly. The thrill of creation, of turning raw ingredients into something that could move people. Kenji beside me, always watching, always a fraction slower. We'd study late, sharing notes, laughing over botched sauces. "We'll open a place together one day," he'd say. "Tanaka and Sato—unbeatable."
But the competition changed everything. My win, his loss. The resentment that festered like an untreated wound. I remembered the first sign: a shared project where my contributions "disappeared" from the file. I chalked it up to a glitch. Then the whispers started—subtle digs in group chats, anonymous posts questioning my originality.
By graduation, the damage was done. The AI scandal hit like a storm. Evidence planted so cleverly it fooled even me at first. Investigations cleared me eventually, but the stain remained. No one hires a chef with a cloud over his head.
And Yumi... god, Yumi. She'd taken me in after my parents' accident when I was ten. Taught me to chop onions without tears, to season with heart as much as salt. Her restaurant wasn't much, but it was home. "You have a gift, Hiro," she'd say, even as I washed dishes instead of leading a kitchen. "Don't let the world take it from you."
But I had. I'd let it slip away, piece by piece, until tonight.
The teller cleared their throat, pulling me back. "Ledger complete. Deeds: Talent in creation, loyalty to kin, perseverance amid adversity. Mitigating:Self-doubt, isolation, unresolvedgrudge. No major infractions. Verdict:Neutral. Eligible for standard options."
Neutral. Unremarkable. It fit.
"Random reincarnation sounds... risky," I said slowly. "What if I end up worse off?"
"Most do," the teller replied matter-of-factly. "Fading is peaceful dissolution—no pain, no awareness."
Neither appealed. Oblivion or a blank slate? After everything, it felt like giving up.
Before I could respond, the air around the cubicle shifted. A soft warmth bloomed, like sunlight filtering through leaves. Three distinct presences materialized as faint orbs above the counter—one golden and earthy, one amber and flickering like a flame, one violet and effervescent.
The teller's eyes widened slightly—the first crack in their composure. "Stars. This is unexpected for a neutral soul."
"Stars?" I echoed, staring at the lights. They pulsed gently, each carrying a subtle essence that resonated deep within me.
The golden one evoked fertile soil, the promise of growth from seed to harvest. The amber brought the comfort of a warm hearth, safety in shared spaces. The violet sparkled with joyful creation, the thrill of turning simple things into abundance.
For the first time since the bullets tore through me, something like hope stirred. Not loud or triumphant—just a quiet whisper that maybe, just maybe, my wish hadn't fallen into the void unheard.
The teller adjusted their screen. "They request an audience. Stand by."
The orbs brightened, and I felt the pull again—this time toward something far greater than darkness.
But as the lights intensified, a fleeting shadow flickered at the edge of my vision—cold, whispering of discord and unraveling. It retreated as quickly as it came, but the chill lingered.
The teller frowned. "Complications. We'll proceed carefully."
I nodded, heart pounding in this bodiless form. Whatever came next, it was better than fading away.