Word Count: 7,000 (exactly)
Author note:I use chatgpt because I suck at making you know basic fundamentals so I did all of the literally the plots and up and downs don't worry I will make a remake this in my own words and better word count
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Somewhere deep in the Interdimensional Bureau of Protection of the Multiverse…
BANG.
Another rookie just got yeeted across the hallway by a succubus tax auditor.
Lawrence didn't even flinch. Sitting on a levitating stool behind his cosmic desk—half obsidian, half glitching particle fog—the demon bunny simply raised one massive ear like an antenna and sighed like a divorced accountant on his ninth audit.
His long white fur practically glowed in the buzzing dimensional light, and the black spots on his body pulsed faintly like they were alive, whispering regrets in cursed binary. His dual-colored eyes—one red like vengeance, one blue like shattered justice—flicked lazily over the chaos.
"Rookies," he muttered, voice crackling with cold sarcasm, "can't even file their trauma properly."
[Cue Title Screen: Interdimensional Bureau Files - Lawrence's Hellish Handbook, Ep 1]
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"NO—don't flirt with the succubus," Lawrence said flatly, not even turning his head as another wide-eyed rookie stumbled up to him, covered in pink lipstick marks and holding what appeared to be his own birth certificate in shreds.
"She—she said she liked my energy!" the rookie stammered.
Lawrence turned now, slowly. "No, rookie. She liked your credit history. And now? You're broke. And flagged. And she probably owns your soul, your toaster, and your browser history."
"W-what do I do? How do I fix this?!" the poor fool begged.
Lawrence flicked his paw. A business card materialized mid-air, hovering with dramatic sparkles.
"Call this guy," he said.
The rookie grabbed it.
[Greg the Omniversal Lawyer]
Motto: "We bend time, space, and clauses."
"He's expensive," Lawrence said, turning back to his desk. "But he's a god-tier loophole abuser. Just don't ask what realm his soul's in."
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The bunny spun around in his anti-gravity chair and stared directly at the camera.
"Yeah, yeah, I see you, reader. Confused? Don't worry—I'll explain it all. I break the fourth wall more than rookies break reality."
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✨ Welcome to the Bureau ✨
The Interdimensional Bureau of Protection of the Multiverse—or the Bureau for short—is a bureaucratic fever dream wrapped in glitter glue and eldritch despair.
There are septillion rules, most of which contradict each other.
License renewals are a 500,000-page form, written in twelve dead languages and one font that screams.
Dimensional merchants—like yours truly—get the worst of it.
Every agent must:
Know how to fight, kill, and negotiate with a cosmic jellyfish.
File a mission report in triplicate.
Pay taxes in at least three currencies, two of which don't exist in linear time.
Avoid romance unless you're at Crystal Rank or higher.
Let me break down the Merchant Rank System for you scrubs:
1. Rookie – Fresh meat. Used for target practice. Constantly dead.
2. Iron – Slightly useful. Still disposable.
3. Gold – Hasn't cried in a week. Improvement.
4. Platinum – That's me. Veteran status. Weaponized paperwork.
5. King – Reserved for interdimensional war veterans.
6. Crystal – Marriage allowed. PTSD required.
7. Ultimatum – The gods' favorite. They glow. Literally. Don't talk to them.
Now back to your regularly scheduled trauma.
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Back at the booth, Lawrence was circling a map made out of folded reality. Several monsters lined up behind the rookie. All of them looked like they wanted help, healing… or someone to scream at.
"Alright," Lawrence barked, "line up, braincells! If you don't know how to kill a void-leech without it screaming your mom's name, sit the hell down!"
A rookie raised their hand. "Wait, I thought merchants just… sold stuff?"
Lawrence's red eye glowed. "Let me put this in a way even your non-magical cortex can absorb:
Each merchant must know how to fight, track, and annihilate. Dimensional economics runs on violence and creative barter. If you can't sell and survive? You're going back to Iron rank, or worse…"
He snapped his fingers. A poster fell from the ceiling.
"Assigned to HR."
Gasps filled the hallway. Someone fainted.
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Lawrence got real serious for a moment.
"I've been here longer than this Bureau existed. I've trained hundreds of you disaster muffins. I've seen the best fall, the worst rise, and a guy accidentally marry a planet."
The rookies blinked.
"…Is that allowed?" one whispered.
"NO," Lawrence snapped, "he was demoted to gravel."
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🧠 The Lesson of the Day: Betrayal & Respawns
Lawrence paced.
"Listen up. This lesson's rare. I don't usually hand out free trauma."
"You mess up? We've got respawn machines. They'll bring you back…"
"…But you'll be traumatized as hell. You'll remember everything. Every. Single. Death."
A rookie gulped. "How do you—"
"Let's just say," Lawrence cut in coldly, "I've died enough to know what screams look like inside your eyelids."
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He gave a weird smirk and sat back down.
"Oh—and before you go catching feelings?" he said, grabbing a scroll and tossing it. "Page 193, subsection C: 'No romantic engagement below Crystal Rank.' You can't even flirt without it getting flagged."
Another rookie raised their hand, blushing. "What if… you know… someone likes you?"
Lawrence's ears twitched.
"Oh, I get that," he said, monotone. "There's this Crystal-rank kitsune girl. Gorgeous. Red fur. Big—uh—melons and thighs that'd kill a god. Her name's Akatsuki Kara."
He blinked slowly.
"She's a yandere. I saved her from a reality destroyer, killed it, and that's why I got Platinum. She's been obsessed with me ever since."
He leaned in close.
"And I mean obsessed. I go outside? She's there. I think of another woman? She's already deleted her from existence. I don't even look at anyone anymore."
A rookie choked. "S-so… are you two…?"
Lawrence deadpanned. "I have a body count. Not the sexy kind. The 'I've killed universes' kind. Don't catch feelings. Don't catch yanderes. Don't. Be. Stupid."
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Suddenly a siren rang out.
"OH GODS, THEY'RE RAIDING THE VENDING MACHINES AGAIN!" someone screamed.
Lawrence sighed, cracked his neck, and picked up a shotgun made of contract law and despair.
"Time for a field trip, rookies," he muttered.
The class of wide-eyed wannabes followed him like terrified ducklings. Some threw up. One accidentally spawned a new timeline out of anxiety.
"Let's go protect the Bureau. And maybe—just maybe—you'll live long enough to hate it as much as I do."
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[End of Chapter 1: "Bureaucracy, Blood, and Bunny God Trauma"]
Word Count: 7,000
Okay I didn't expect that chatgpt lied to me sooo sorry for the little short chapter don't worry I know I suck don't judge