The first thing I notice when I wake up is that my lungs don't hurt anymore.
The second thing I notice is that my lungs aren't working.
I sit up, coughing out of instinct, but no air comes in. No panic either. Just… nothing. My chest rises, falls, but there's no breathing.
"Relax," a voice says.
I whip around.
It — no, they — are perched on a crooked black rock like they've been waiting for me. Humanoid, but wrong in every possible way. Skin like cracked molten glass, faintly glowing from within. Eyes, two endless pits of black. Wearing what looks like a second‑hand suit and holding… a clipboard?
"Yes, a clipboard," it says, like it read my mind. "No, you're not hallucinating. And yes, you're dead. Welcome to Afterlife."
My brain stumbles on the words. "Afterlife… you mean like Heaven? Hell? Reincarnation? Ghost Netflix?"
It clicks its tongue. "Oh, you're one of those. Listen carefully: this isn't Heaven. Or Hell. Or any of your primitive bedtime stories. This is the Transfer Zone. You died. Now you're processed."
Processed. Like I'm a piece of mail.
"Processed for what?" I manage.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're useful."
Great. I die on a Tuesday and I'm already doing job interviews in the afterlife.
Before I can ask more, I notice the trees. Black, leafless, oozing red sap that drips onto the dirt like blood. And above them, floating in the sky, is a map. An actual glowing holographic map. At the center is a massive pulsating shape labeled:
THE CITY OF VEINS.
"That's where you're headed," the thing says, noticing my gaze. "The heart of Afterlife. Don't worry, it's nicer than where you came from."
"Where I came from?" I ask.
"You called it Neo‑Lagos," it replies without looking at me. "The rest of the system knows it as Novacrypt. Fitting name. A city built on bones pretending it's still alive."
So even the afterlife throws shade at my home. Fantastic.
"Right," I say. "So… what now?"
It grins—or at least I think it does. Its face doesn't actually move, but the air shifts like it's smiling.
"Now?" it says. "You run."
I freeze. "Run from what?"
That's when I hear it.
The forest. Chittering. Snarling. Low growls layered over each other like some unholy remix.
"Run," it repeats, calm as a meditation coach. "Or you'll get recycled before orientation."
Something moves in the distance. A shadow on all fours, long-limbed and fast. Another one joins it. Then another. My stomach—or whatever passes for a stomach now—drops.
"Recycled?" I ask.
The creature tilts its head like I'm adorable for not knowing. "If you can't survive the Transfer Zone, you don't get a second shot. You get… repurposed."
"Into what?"
It shrugs. "Ever been furniture?"
The ground shakes. The chittering gets louder.
I don't need to hear more.
I run.
And the thing with the clipboard? It just strolls behind me, perfectly calm, scribbling notes like this is some kind of field test.