《The Hero Bureau》 Knock, knock It was a Tuesday, which felt appropriate somehow. Tuesdays have a way of being the least remarkable day of the week. Mondays carry their weight of dread and obligation, but at least they have a personality. Wednesdays bring the promise of a downhill slope, and Thursdays are tantalizingly close to Friday. But Tuesdays? They just exist. A placeholder between more interesting moments. I was at my desk, which was more of a corner of the spare room, staring at my screen. Lines of code blinked back at me, waiting for their cue, but my mind wasn¡¯t cooperating. I had that restless kind of focus where you keep clicking between the same three tabs, hoping one of them will suddenly reveal the meaning of life. The photo on my desk caught my eye¡ªa candid shot of my wife, Sarah, and our daughter, Eden, taken at the park last summer. Sarah looked effortlessly lovely, her smile the kind that could disarm an argument in an instant. Eden, five years old and full of opinions, had insisted on holding the ice cream cone upside down for reasons only she understood. That was Eden for you. Joyfully chaotic, like a tiny whirlwind in pink sneakers. I adjusted the photo slightly. Not because it needed it, but because I did. It was something to do, a way to feel like I was accomplishing something when, in reality, I was avoiding the bug in the code that had been mocking me since mid-morning. ¡°Right,¡± I said to no one in particular. ¡°Break time.¡± The ritual was familiar by now: boil the kettle, make a cup of tea, and convince myself that the act of brewing it would somehow unlock a hidden reserve of productivity. The tea rarely lived up to its promise, but I liked the ritual. It felt¡­ dependable. The doorbell rang just as I was settling back into my chair. At first, I ignored it. Most deliveries these days involve someone leaving a parcel on the step and darting off like a particularly efficient Santa. But then it rang again, insistently this time. I sighed and set the mug down. The suburbs are supposed to be a fortress of tranquility, but there¡¯s always someone trying to sell you double glazing or a petition about traffic calming measures. Still, you can¡¯t just leave the bell unanswered. That¡¯s how you end up on the receiving end of a concerned neighbor¡¯s lecture about community spirit. I opened the door without much thought, expecting a clipboard-wielding volunteer or maybe a parcel I¡¯d forgotten I ordered. Instead, I found¡­ him.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. At first glance, he seemed like a man¡ªtall, lean, and dressed in a suit so crisp it looked like it might have its own dry-cleaning sponsorship. But there was something about him that made my brain hesitate, like it wasn¡¯t entirely convinced. His face was pale, all sharp lines and high cheekbones, but not quite right. It was as if someone had taken a checklist of human features and stopped halfway through filling it out. His eyes, though¡ªthose were what gave me pause. Bright and unblinking, they held a strange intensity, like he was quietly cataloging everything about me in real-time. His grin, stretched just a little too wide, was the kind that might seem friendly at first but quickly slid into unsettling territory the longer you looked at it. I blinked, my brain struggling to reconcile the polished, eerily precise figure on my doorstep with the ordinary world I¡¯d been inhabiting moments ago. It was like staring at a picture that looks normal until you realize there¡¯s one detail that throws the whole thing into question. And then I saw his shirt. Bold letters over a plain black background: ¡°I ?? Truck-kun.¡±It was such a strange, absurd detail that it momentarily overrode every other thought in my head. Here was this imposing, otherworldly man, exuding an energy that felt entirely out of place, and he was wearing a meme. I let out a small laugh¡ªnervous, involuntary, and probably ill-advised. It wasn¡¯t that I found it funny exactly; it was more that my brain had decided this was the only way to cope with the mounting weirdness. His grin faltered. Not entirely, but just enough for me to notice. The warmth¡ªor what passed for warmth¡ªdrained from his expression, leaving behind something colder and sharper. His eyes narrowed slightly, and I had the distinct sense that I¡¯d failed some kind of test. Then, without warning, he raised his hand. It wasn¡¯t until I saw the bright blue water gun¡ªa cheap-looking, translucent thing that wouldn¡¯t have looked out of place in Eden¡¯s toy box¡ªthat I felt myself relax. For all the eerie vibes this man was giving off, a plastic water gun was hardly threatening. That thought lasted about half a second. He pulled the trigger, and there was no stream of water, no harmless splash. Instead, the air shimmered, a ripple of something I couldn¡¯t quite explain, like the static hum of a television left on mute. My knees buckled as a sudden, overwhelming weightlessness overtook me. I tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but my voice refused to cooperate. My limbs felt disconnected, like someone had cut the strings of a marionette. As my vision blurred at the edges, I thought of Sarah and Eden. Their faces came to me with perfect clarity, so vivid it felt like I could reach out and touch them. The last thing I saw before everything went dark was the man turning away, his sharp grin returning as if nothing had happened. Whatever his to-do list had been for the day, it seemed I¡¯d just been crossed off. The afterlife is beige 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¡ªnot 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¡ªa 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¡ªor float¡ªforward. 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¡ªwell, as much as something without lungs can¡ªand 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¡ª¡± ¡°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¡ªI 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. Verification of Heroic Intent Reaching the front of Line 7 wasn¡¯t a moment of triumph but one of quiet inevitability. After all, even the slowest queues eventually move if you wait long enough. The counter was a battered thing, its wood worn smooth by countless restless souls before me. Behind it sat a man who looked as though he¡¯d been there for eons, quietly bearing witness to every inefficiency in the universe. His mismatched glasses gave him a slightly lopsided appearance, and his tie drooped across his shirt like it had long since given up the fight. The badge on his chest read Nigel. Nigel didn¡¯t greet me. He didn¡¯t even glance up. Instead, he slid an enormous scroll across the counter with a single finger, the motion so practiced it could have been muscle memory¡ªif he had muscles, that is. ¡°Fill this out,¡± he said, in a tone that was less a suggestion and more an immutable fact of existence. I eyed the scroll warily, then glanced down¡ªor rather, inward¡ªat my amorphous, glowing self. No hands. No arms. Not even a phantom limb to work with. ¡°I¡¯d love to,¡± I said, ¡°but I don¡¯t exactly have the right... tools.¡± Nigel finally raised his gaze, his expression one of profound indifference. ¡°You¡¯re a soul. Figure it out.¡± Helpful. I leaned closer to the scroll, and as I focused, faint tendrils of light extended from my form, curling toward the parchment like vapor drawn to a flame. The scroll shimmered faintly, and the first question appeared in bold, archaic letters: Would you describe yourself as: A) a selfless hero, B) a reluctant hero, or C) a hero only when no one else is looking? I tilted slightly¡ªmy approximation of a shrug. ¡°No ¡®None of the above,¡¯ I see. Brilliant.¡± I selected reluctant hero with a flick of thought, the tendrils leaving a faint, glowing mark on the parchment. ¡°Nigel, out of curiosity, do these answers actually matter?¡± ¡°Everything matters,¡± he replied without looking up, his voice as dry as the scroll itself. Comforting. I turned back to the next question: On a scale from one to heroic, how many kittens would you rescue from a tree before giving up? ¡°Nigel,¡± I asked, glancing up again. ¡°Who came up with this? A council of bored philosophers?¡± ¡°The Council of Heroic Metrics,¡± he replied. ¡°Version 67A is their most recent improvement.¡± ¡°Improvement, you say? What was wrong with the first sixty-six versions?¡± He adjusted his glasses. ¡°Version 34 had a question about pancake preferences. Caused a minor uprising.¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Pancakes, you say...¡± I marked ¡°two¡± for the kittens¡ªenough to seem noble but not so ambitious as to invite follow-up questions¡ªand moved on. The scroll continued its surreal interrogation: In a combat scenario, which weapon would you most likely use: A) a sword, B) a lance, or C) biting sarcasm? ¡°Do souls even have the upper body strength for lances?¡± ¡°No,¡± he said simply. ¡°But it¡¯s tradition.¡± Fair enough. I selected lance, though biting sarcasm felt more authentic. The questions grew stranger as I progressed. One section demanded a diagram of my ideal heroic lair. Using the same tendrils of light, I sketched a modest cave with a glowing hearth at its center. It wasn¡¯t exactly heroic, but it felt peaceful. Another asked me to rate my dragon-slaying proficiency, and the one after that wanted my thoughts on hostage negotiation tactics. Before I could tackle the next question, a burst of flickering light zipped into view, accompanied by a jittery, high-pitched voice. ¡°Nigel! Nigel, I need a Form 82-Z! Urgent!¡± The soul behind the interruption was... unusual. Where most of us were faintly glowing and steady, this one pulsed erratically, like a malfunctioning neon sign. Their energy crackled in the air, making the scroll¡¯s edges quiver slightly. Nigel sighed deeply, his tie slipping forward as if even it were exasperated. ¡°Trevor, we don¡¯t issue Form 82-Zs at Line 7. How many times do I have to tell you?¡± ¡°But it¡¯s an emergency!¡± Trevor buzzed, their glow intensifying. ¡°The Council of Celestial Spheres is auditing my existential frequency. If I don¡¯t file¡ª¡± ¡°There is no Council of Celestial Spheres,¡± Nigel interrupted. Trevor gasped, their light stuttering. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what they want you to think.¡± Nigel rubbed his temples¡ªor where temples would have been. ¡°Trevor, I¡¯m in the middle of assisting someone. Go back to Line 5.¡± ¡°Line 5 doesn¡¯t understand my plight!¡± ¡°Line 5 doesn¡¯t care about your plight. Now, please leave before you disrupt the scroll calibration.¡± Trevor hesitated, their glow dimming. ¡°This isn¡¯t over!¡± they declared, zipping away in a flurry of light and static. I stared after them. ¡°Does that happen often?¡± ¡°Every day,¡± Nigel replied, motioning for me to continue. I turned back to the scroll, pushing through its increasingly bizarre queries. One section required me to rank justice, compassion, and teamwork in order of importance, while another asked for my thoughts on the ethical implications of rescuing cursed villagers. The questions blurred together, my glowing tendrils moving automatically as I answered. All the while, the faint sound of ticking echoed in my mind. Time. My daughter. She was waiting for me. ¡°Nigel,¡± I said, my voice quiet but firm, ¡°I don¡¯t mean to rush, but I¡¯ve got to pick up my daughter. School lets out at three. If I¡¯m not there... she¡¯ll worry.¡± Nigel¡¯s gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained steady. ¡°You should keep going.¡± ¡°Helpful,¡± I muttered, marking another answer. At last, I reached the final question: What is your preferred heroic motto? I hesitated, then wrote: Do no harm, but maybe a little mischief. It felt fitting. I pushed the scroll back toward Nigel, my light flickering faintly from the effort. He scanned it with a quick, practiced eye, then stamped it with a bright red mark: PENDING REVIEW. ¡°Pending?¡± I asked, incredulous. ¡°After all that?¡± ¡°Line 8,¡± Nigel replied, already gesturing for the next soul to step forward. Calibrations and Chaos The thing about endless lines is that they tend to feel more endless the longer you stand in them. But Line 8 wasn¡¯t just long¡ªit was outright impossible. It stretched through the space in a twisted, glowing loop, folding back on itself like some kind of ethereal rollercoaster. Souls shuffled forward at odd intervals, muttering as they stared at the shimmering floor. Every now and then, a ghostly intercom voice boomed overhead, announcing unintelligible directives: ¡°Applicant 137-ZX, proceed to Grid Lambda. Urgent correction required.¡± No one seemed to react. I tapped a metaphysical finger against my ethereal form and tried to ignore the growing dread in my chest. What time was it? 2:30? 2:40? The thought of missing Eden¡¯s school pick-up made my chest tighten. Come on, Simon. Keep it together. Lines end eventually¡­ don¡¯t they? Nearby, a small kiosk floated above the ground, glowing with soft blue light. A cheery sign above it read: ¡°Time Tokens: Trade Your Soul Patience for Speed!¡± Beneath it was a scrolling disclaimer in tiny text. I didn¡¯t have to read it to know it wasn¡¯t worth the risk. Something about trading ¡°Soul Patience¡± felt like a slippery slope. Still, the idea of cutting to the front was tempting. ¡°Don¡¯t bother,¡± said a voice to my left. I turned to see a soul wearing what could only be described as a toga made of crumpled forms. She had a clipboard tucked under one arm and was carefully folding a piece of paper into a crane. ¡°The tokens are a scam. You trade your patience, and they just make you wait in a different line. Classic bait-and-switch.¡± ¡°Good to know,¡± I said, wondering if she could hear the weariness in my voice. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you know a faster way to get through all this?¡± The soul gave me a look that was equal parts amusement and pity. ¡°Oh, there¡¯s always a faster way. Just depends on how much trouble you¡¯re willing to get into.¡± She smirked and held up her paper crane, which flapped its tiny wings before bursting into flame. ¡°Name¡¯s Gwen. Been here¡­ oh, a few decades, give or take. I¡¯ve learned a thing or two.¡± ¡°A few decades?¡± My stomach¡ªor whatever souls had in place of one¡ªdid an uncomfortable flip. ¡°How are you still¡­ I mean, don¡¯t you have somewhere you need to be?¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve had plenty of places to be,¡± Gwen said, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°Appointments, trials, heroic missions. But the Bureau¡¯s a master at making you forget why you¡¯re in a hurry. Pretty soon, you start folding cranes just to pass the time.¡± Her words hit me like a gut punch. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t have decades. I¡¯ve got minutes.¡± I glanced at the line ahead, where the souls were inching forward like lethargic slugs. ¡°Do you know any shortcuts? I need to pick up my daughter by three.¡± Gwen¡¯s eyes lit up with curiosity. ¡°A daughter, eh? That¡¯s a rare motivation around here. Most folks are too busy worrying about their destiny or their fate.¡± She leaned in conspiratorially. ¡°There is one way. But it¡¯s risky.¡± ¡°Risky how?¡± She tapped her clipboard, which I now realized was covered in dense, illegible scribbles. ¡°Have you heard of the Hero Disqualification Wing?¡± ¡°No,¡± I said, dreading what was coming next. ¡°It¡¯s where they send souls who don¡¯t quite measure up.¡± Gwen¡¯s voice dropped to a whisper. ¡°If you can slip in there, you might find a loophole to get out of this whole hero business. But getting there means breaking a few rules. And the Bureau really doesn¡¯t like rule-breakers.¡± I frowned. ¡°And this loophole¡­ it would get me back to Earth?¡± ¡°Possibly.¡± Gwen shrugged. ¡°Or it might land you in administrative purgatory. But hey, it¡¯s better than waiting in Line 8 for eternity, right?¡± Before I could respond, the line suddenly lurched forward. I stumbled slightly, surprised by the movement. Ahead, a glowing sign flickered into view: ¡°Heroic Aptitude Calibration: Prepare Your Soul for Greatness!¡± ¡°Looks like your time¡¯s up,¡± Gwen said, gesturing to the line. ¡°Good luck in Calibration. Try not to lose your patience. Or your mind.¡± I hesitated, torn between following the line or taking Gwen¡¯s cryptic advice. Before I could decide, a soul barreled past me, giggling maniacally. They were holding what looked like a glowing yo-yo, spinning it wildly as they skipped toward a side corridor marked ¡°Lost and Found (Heroes).¡± ¡°I found my courage!¡± the soul shouted, disappearing down the hallway.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°What the¡ª¡± I began, but Gwen cut me off. ¡°Don¡¯t mind them. Lost and Found attracts all sorts. Half the stuff in there is cursed, anyway.¡± She waved me forward. ¡°Go on. Calibration won¡¯t wait forever.¡± Reluctantly, I shuffled back into the line, glancing over my shoulder at Gwen. Her paper cranes were fluttering around her like tiny, burning butterflies. Part of me wanted to stay and ask more questions, but the clock was ticking. Eden needed me. If there was any chance Calibration could get me out of here faster, I had to take it. The line moved steadily now, leading me toward a glowing archway. Beyond it, I could see flickers of light and hear the faint hum of machinery. My gut told me I wasn¡¯t going to like what came next, but I had no choice. Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the arch and into the unknown. ----- The glowing archway sealed behind me with a faint hum, leaving me standing in what I can only describe as an interdimensional exam room. The walls shimmered like liquid mercury, rippling with ghostly reflections that seemed to watch my every move. In the center of the room floated a spherical console, bristling with strange protrusions¡ªlevers, dials, and buttons that glowed in colors I didn¡¯t even know existed. ¡°Applicant 407-X,¡± a clipped, authoritative voice announced. I jumped and spun around, only to find the source: a stern-looking woman with translucent skin and an air of militant efficiency. She wore something that might have been a uniform if uniforms were designed by bureaucrats obsessed with flair. Her name tag read Ms. Fenwick. ¡°You will now undergo Heroic Aptitude Calibration,¡± she said, her voice like a whip cracking against my nerves. ¡°This process will assess your physical, mental, and metaphysical capabilities to determine your suitability for heroic deployment.¡± ¡°Right,¡± I said, trying to sound confident. ¡°And, uh, how long does this¡­ calibration take?¡± ¡°Time,¡± she said with a sharp glare, ¡°is irrelevant in the Bureau.¡± ¡°That¡¯s comforting,¡± I muttered, though internally, I was screaming. 2:45! You¡¯ve got fifteen minutes, Simon. Focus! Ms. Fenwick didn¡¯t seem inclined to wait for my existential crisis to pass. She waved her hand, and the console in the center of the room sprang to life, its protrusions whirring and spinning. A glowing panel emerged, displaying a series of rapidly shifting symbols that made my head spin. ¡°Step forward,¡± she commanded. I hesitated. ¡°And if I don¡¯t?¡± Her glare could have melted steel. ¡°Step. Forward.¡± With a sigh, I shuffled toward the console. The moment I got close, tendrils of light shot out from the machine and wrapped around my form. I yelped as they lifted me off the ground, suspending me in midair like a bug in a web. The tendrils began to pulse, scanning me with a series of bright flashes that made me feel like I was being dissected under a microscope. ¡°Physical calibration initiated,¡± Ms. Fenwick announced. ¡°Brace yourself.¡± ¡°Brace for wha¡ª¡± My words were cut off as the tendrils yanked me into what felt like a vortex. Suddenly, I was in the middle of an empty battlefield, the sky an ominous shade of red. A glowing sword appeared in my hand, and before I could process what was happening, a monstrous figure lunged at me from the shadows. Instinct took over. I swung the sword wildly, barely managing to block the creature¡¯s attack. It snarled and lashed out again, its movements impossibly fast. I stumbled backward, my mind racing. This isn¡¯t real. It can¡¯t be real. But the pain in my arm as the creature¡¯s claw grazed me felt very real. Panic surged through me, but then¡ªalmost without thinking¡ªI reached out with the sword and slashed at the creature¡¯s side. The blade connected, and the creature dissolved into smoke. ¡°Hmm,¡± Ms. Fenwick¡¯s voice echoed in the air, clinical and unimpressed. ¡°Adequate reflexes. Poor strategy.¡± Before I could retort, the battlefield dissolved, and I was back in the exam room, still suspended by the glowing tendrils. ¡°Physical calibration complete,¡± Ms. Fenwick announced. ¡°Initiating mental calibration.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t I at least catch my breath?¡± I asked, but she ignored me. The tendrils pulsed again, and this time I was plunged into what looked like a maze made entirely of light. The walls shifted constantly, rearranging themselves in ways that made navigation nearly impossible. A timer appeared above my head, counting down ominously. ¡°Your task is to find the exit before the timer runs out,¡± Ms. Fenwick¡¯s voice instructed. ¡°Begin.¡± I groaned. Of course it¡¯s timed. Because why not? With no other choice, I started moving, trying to map the shifting pathways in my mind. But every time I thought I¡¯d figured out a pattern, the walls would shift again, forcing me to start over. The timer ticked down relentlessly. Then it happened. A faint shimmer caught my eye¡ªan opening that wasn¡¯t part of the maze. I reached out with my thoughts, and to my surprise, the shimmer responded, bending the maze around it. The exit appeared directly in front of me. ¡°Interesting,¡± Ms. Fenwick¡¯s voice said as the maze dissolved. ¡°You have an intuitive grasp of ethereal data manipulation. Rare, but unpolished.¡± I wasn¡¯t sure whether to feel flattered or insulted. ¡°Calibration complete,¡± Ms. Fenwick declared. ¡°Your results will be sent to the appropriate department for further evaluation.¡± ¡°Wait, that¡¯s it?¡± I asked, as the tendrils released me and I floated back to the ground. ¡°What about getting back to Earth?¡± ¡°That is not my department,¡± she said curtly. ¡°You may proceed to Line 9.¡± ¡°Line 9?!¡± I felt my frustration boil over. ¡°I don¡¯t have time for another line! I need to get back to my daughter¡ª¡± A loud crash interrupted me. The wall behind the console exploded inward, and Trevor stumbled into the room, his ethereal form crackling with chaotic energy. ¡°Simon!¡± he shouted. ¡°I¡¯ve found it!¡± ¡°Found what?¡± I asked, even as Ms. Fenwick shrieked in fury. ¡°No time to explain!¡± Trevor grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the hole in the wall. ¡°Just trust me!¡± I glanced at Ms. Fenwick, who was already summoning reinforcements, and then at the clock in my mind. 2:55. With no better options, I followed Trevor into the chaos.