When 26‑year‑old delivery rider Kael Idiran dies on an ordinary Tuesday, he wakes up in Afterlife — a strange realm between worlds where the dead are processed, recycled, or, if they’re lucky, given a second chance.

Survival in the Transfer Zone is brutal. Kael’s only “help” is a sarcastic, clipboard‑wielding being who insists he’s either useful or disposable, and the forest around him is crawling with soul‑hungry horrors eager to tear him apart.

To live again, Kael must reach the City of Veins, the pulsing heart of Afterlife, where gods, monsters, and the restless dead clash in a game far bigger than anything he imagined. But as he dives deeper, one thing becomes clear: death was just the tutorial.

The Stitchmen move like puppets on invisible strings — jerky, wrong, yet impossibly fast.


"Kael," Scribe says calmly, "you're about to die."


"Correction: You're about to die unless you get creative."


I grit my teeth. My hand is already burning.


Come on. Do the thing. Do the Glitch thing.


I dodge — barely — and slam my glowing palm into its chest.


The Stitchman freezes. Not just still — frozen mid-motion, like I paused a video.


"Oh," Scribe says, sounding almost impressed. "Temporal lock. You're getting fancy."


"Wish I could do it on purpose!" I grunt, shoving the frozen Stitchman into another. They topple like broken mannequins.


Another charges, blades sprouting from its arms.


I duck, sliding under it, feeling the membrane floor ripple like water. My palm pulses again — and suddenly I'm faster.


I grab one of the dangling soul-threads above and yank it down, using it as leverage to kick off the wall and slam my foot into a Stitchman's face. Its mask shatters.


For one glorious second, I feel unstoppable.


It's like my brain is on fire. My body seizes, my vision blurs. I drop to one knee, gasping.


"Overuse," Scribe says. "You're burning through yourself."


The chained figure at the center of the Hall raises its arm.


The Stitchmen hiss in unison. Then, without a word, they slink back into the shadows, vanishing into the living walls.


I collapse on the floor, still shaking.


"New blood," Scribe says cheerfully. "Making friends already."


"Collectors," it replies. "They take what isn't guarded. Today, that's you."


"Perfect," I mutter, clutching my burning hand.


The chained figure's voice rumbles through the Hall:


"Learn quickly, Glitch. The City does not protect what it does not own."


And just like that, I realize something horrible.


Chapter 13 - THE STITCHMEN