I don’t awaken to a glowing throne room or a celestial goddess. No, I come to in a waiting room. A very beige waiting room. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige chairs. It’s a kind of beige so uninspired it feels like it might apologize for existing, if it could muster the energy. Overhead, fluorescent lights hum faintly, their buzz blending with the quiet murmur of voices all around me.


    The room is packed—not with people, exactly, but with floating blobs of light. Some glow faintly, others pulsate, a few ripple like someone tossed a pebble into their center. They all drift about, occasionally clustering into small groups, their movements as aimless as a feather in a breeze. Souls, I think. That makes sense, doesn’t it?


    From a corner of the room, an intercom crackles to life. “Now serving number… 247A at Window 13,” it announces, in a tone so monotone I wonder if it’s being sarcastic.


    I glance down. There’s a slip of paper clutched in what I assume is my hand. It reads: 953X. Well, that’s promising. The intercom spits out something else unintelligible, and I resist the urge to sigh.


    I try to get my bearings, moving toward a nearby soul—a teal one with a flickering edge like static on an old TV screen. “Excuse me,” I ask, holding up my slip, “any idea what’s going on?”


    The teal soul twitches slightly, then bobs away without a word. Right. I drift toward another soul, this one a faint orange with a rounded, almost melon-like shape. It’s humming softly to itself, but the moment I approach, it quiets and floats off.


    Ahead, a clerk sits behind a glass partition. Their desk is piled with papers that look suspiciously blank, and they’re flipping through them as if they’re cataloging ghosts. A plaque on the desk reads Department of Hero Soul Distribution - Intake.


    The clerk gestures for the next soul to step—or float—forward. This one’s a vibrant green with antlers sprouting from its top. The soul hesitates, as if unsure of the protocol.


    “What?” the clerk barks, barely looking up. “No, you don’t get extra credit for dying dramatically. Next.”


    The antlered soul deflates slightly—well, as much as something without lungs can—and drifts away.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    It takes me a moment to realize there’s no formal line here. Souls shuffle vaguely toward the desk, and it seems to operate more on intuition than order. I decide to take a chance, moving forward. No one stops me.


    When I reach the desk, the clerk glances up briefly. “Number?” they ask, their tone clipped.


    “953X,” I reply, holding up my slip.


    They frown, scanning the flashing numbers on a board behind them. “You’re out of sequence,” they say, gesturing to the number currently being served: 247B.


    “Oh, sorry,” I say, starting to back away. “I didn’t mean to—”


    “No point now. You’re here,” they interrupt, waving me closer. With a sigh, they slide a clipboard through the slot in the glass. A pen dangles from a chain so short it could double as a philosophical statement.


    “Name?” they ask, not looking at me.


    “Simon,” I reply.


    They pause, their pen hovering over the form. “Full name, including heroic titles.”


    “Heroic titles?” I repeat, baffled.


    The clerk finally looks up, their gaze flat and unimpressed. “Didn’t read the pamphlet, did you?” They jab a thumb toward a rack of leaflets titled So You’ve Died: What’s Next?


    I glance over and grab one. The cover features a glowing orb holding a sword while standing on a mountain of paperwork. The bold lettering reads, Welcome to Your Afterlife! Reclaim Your Glory in Just 47 Easy Steps!


    “I think there’s been a mistake,” I stammer, holding the clipboard awkwardly. “I’m not a hero. I’m just… me. A regular guy. I live in the suburbs. I have a daughter. I need to get home.”


    The clerk taps the pen against the glass, their expression unreadable. “Not a hero,” they repeat, as if testing the phrase for weak spots. “Interesting.” They lean back in their chair, their gaze shifting to a faintly glowing board on the wall. “Hmm.”


    “What?” I ask, a knot tightening in my stomach.


    “Well,” they say, their voice taking on a practiced monotony, “if you’re not a hero, we’ll need to verify that. Line 7 should sort it out.”


    “Line 7?” I echo, not sure if I’ve misheard.


    “Verification of Heroic Intent,” they reply, already sliding a blank form toward the next soul in line.


    “But I just said—I don’t have heroic intent,” I protest.


    “Then it should be quick,” they say with a faint shrug, not bothering to meet my eyes.


    I stand there for a moment, unsure if I’ve been dismissed or if there’s some other step I’ve missed. The clerk doesn’t look up again, though, so I glance toward the hallway they indicated. It’s long, far longer than any hallway has a right to be, stretching into a faint, glowing haze.


    Behind me, the intercom crackles. “Now serving number… 247C at Window 5.” The sound nudges me forward, like a tap on the shoulder. Around me, the faint murmurs of the other souls blend into a quiet hum, as if they’re all waiting for something I haven’t yet grasped.


    With my slip of paper clutched tightly, I step toward the hallway. Whatever Line 7 is, it doesn’t sound like it’s going to solve my problems, but it seems to be the only direction I’ve got.