Have you ever wondered what happens during death… or what comes after it?
Do you really know?
Maybe no one does—because no one who truly knows is alive long enough to tell the story.
My name is Ann Jones.
I'm twenty‑three years old, single, and—according to my mother—definitely searching.
In reality, I'm just a regular office worker trying to survive adulthood one paycheck at a time.
"Ann, deliver this coffee to the conference room. I dropped some files on your desk—review them and send a summary to my email. Also, these are the lunch orders for today. Get them here before one. Ann, don't be late, okay?"
The HOD stared straight into my eyes as she spoke, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.
I nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am."
The moment she turned her back, my face twisted into a scowl.
Ann, do this. Ann, get that. Ann, make sure this is done and don't be late.
I mimicked her quietly, rolling my eyes as I walked toward the conference room, coffee tray balanced in my hands.
"When have I ever been late?" I muttered.
Back at my desk, I stared at the towering pile of files waiting for me.
I sighed heavily. "Is this what she meant by some files? Some my foot."
I dropped into my chair and got to work, determined to finish before lunch. I was halfway through the stack when a sudden knock on my desk made me jump.
"What the hell?!" I shouted.
"Why are you always in a bad mood?" my friend Debbie laughed. "Always making weird faces."
"Try doing half the work I do every day," I snapped, "and see if you don't start making weird faces too."
"Sorry, grumpy old woman."
"How dare you? You're the old woman." I grabbed the nearest object on my desk and chased her playfully—until a loud throat cleared behind us.
"Miss Ann. Miss Debbie. What exactly are you doing?"
"The witch is back," I muttered under my breath.
"Did you say something, Miss Ann?"
"No, ma'am."
"It's almost lunch time. Why are you still here?"
"I was just about to step out. Sorry."
I bowed my head, though I couldn't stop myself from cursing quietly as I walked away.
Everyone in the office loved ordering lunch from Emperor Diner—a restaurant miles away, tucked along a quiet, remote road. I hated going there.
The food was amazing.
The road was not.
I grabbed the lunch list, got into my car, and pulled out of the parking lot, still grumpy about my job and my life choices. After crossing the highway, I turned onto the narrow road leading to the diner. It was unusually quiet—only cars heading to the beach or the restaurant ever passed through.
"Mm‑hmm…" I hummed along to the radio, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
That's when everything went wrong.
I didn't notice the car speeding toward me from the opposite direction until it was too late. It was sleek. Expensive.
The impact was deafening.
Metal screamed. Glass shattered.
My car flipped—once, twice—before slamming onto its side. The window exploded outward, and half my body was thrown through the broken glass.
Pain slammed into me all at once.
My ears rang violently. My head throbbed where it had smashed into the steering wheel. My vision blurred as warm blood streamed down my face and into my eyes.
Then I saw him.
The man who hit me.
He stepped out of his car slowly, calmly—too calmly. He walked toward the wreckage and crouched beside me. He crouched beside me, watching as my consciousness slipped away.
My lips moved, though my voice barely existed.
"Help… please," I begged.
He smiled.
Before the darkness took me completely, I heard him whisper:
"Congratulations, lucky loser."
Then he stood up, walked back to his car—and left.
Everything went black.