There was no sound.
No heartbeat. No breath. No wind. Just the subtle hum of artificial air circulating through a place that had no sky.
And then — the chime.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened.
A woman stumbled forward, catching herself against the polished marble floor. She wore a charcoal-gray skirt suit, her glasses slightly tilted, her expression dazed. Behind her, a man in his early thirties stepped out, blinking against the dim light. A faint surgical mask hung loosely from one ear, as though he'd come straight from an operating room.
Neither spoke.
Neither remembered.
And yet, both could feel it — something was off.
The bar before them was elegant, but unreal. The shelves were lined with spirits from every corner of the world. A chandelier sparkled dimly overhead, but cast no shadow. The lighting felt like twilight, though there were no windows.
Behind the counter, a man stood perfectly still.
White hair. Black vest. Pale blue eyes like cracked ice.
He bowed.
"Welcome to Quindecim."
The woman adjusted her glasses. "What is this place…?"
Decim spoke gently, but his words carried an unnatural precision. "This is a bar where souls come after death. You do not remember dying. That is normal."
"Death…?" the man echoed. "Wait, are you saying we're dead?"
"I am," Decim replied without flinching. "However, you have one task remaining."
He gestured to a small roulette wheel embedded in the bar.
"You must play a game."
The woman narrowed her eyes. "What kind of game?"
Decim spun the wheel. The sound of clicking echoed louder than it should have.
"Darts," he said, as the wheel slowed. "A game of precision."
He placed a dartboard on the far wall. Then he brought out a tray of darts. Each one shimmered strangely — as if they weren't entirely solid.
"These darts are connected to one another," Decim explained. "Every time you throw one, your opponent will feel a sensation. Sometimes minor, sometimes… not."
The man stepped forward, frowning. "Why are we doing this?"
"To determine the truth," Decim said simply. "And your fate."
The woman's hands were shaking slightly.
She didn't know why.
15 Minutes Later
The first dart struck the outer ring. A twinge of pain shot through the man's shoulder. He grimaced, but said nothing.
The woman hesitated. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," he said quietly.
But something in her chest twisted.
The man aimed next. His dart hit the side of the board — linked to her ribs.
She gasped, stumbling backward. "You did that on purpose!"
"I didn't!"
"You flinched before you threw it—!"
Decim watched. Still. Silent. Observing.
Behind the tinted glass wall, the assistant took notes.
"Anger is blooming faster than guilt. The memories haven't returned yet."
She paused, looking at the woman's face as she trembled.
"...but something familiar is starting to surface in her eyes."
The game continued. Each dart brought not just pain, but fragments of memory.
A hospital hallway.
A child's face crying.
A voice shouting — "You said she would live!"
The woman dropped her dart.
Her eyes widened.
"I know you."
The man froze.
The air in Quindecim turned cold.
"I was the teacher," she said slowly. "And you… you were the surgeon."
The man's hand clenched into a fist.
"And you told the parents it was their fault she died."
She stepped back. "No… you didn't tell the truth. You lied about what happened during surgery."
His voice was sharp now. "You think I had a choice? That child was dying before she even got to the table!"
"You said she had a 90% chance—!"
They were shouting now.
But Decim did not move.
This was the moment judgment began.
To Be Continued...