Adrian Vale woke up in what could only be described as a cubicle from the world's least imaginative apocalypse.
Fluorescent halos buzzed overhead like anxious thoughts. The air smelled faintly of ozone and melted toner. Rows of desks stretched into an infinite corridor, each one manned by a clerk with too many eyes and not enough enthusiasm. Paperwork printed itself in demonic cursive, occasionally catching fire out of what appeared to be spite.
A sign above the nearest desk read:
QUEUE HERE FOR ETERNAL PROCESSING. WE VALUE YOUR DESPAIR.
Adrian blinked once, twice, and said evenly,
"I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge of the afterlife's onboarding process."
The words came out on reflex—pure bureaucratic muscle memory. Somewhere deep inside, the part of his brain responsible for panic had apparently filled out a "request for emotional breakdown" form and filed it for later.
He looked down. He was seated in a swivel chair made of polished bone and ergonomic guilt. An ID badge blinked faintly against his shirt pocket:
Pending Evaluation — Department of Psychological Maintenance.
He tapped the tag once. It beeped politely.
"Psychological maintenance," he repeated, deadpan. "So… eternal therapy."
The chair squeaked approvingly.
Orientation in Administrative Purgatory
He rose slowly, straightening his burnt-paper lab coat and taking inventory like any good clinician faced with a metaphysical incident.
"Orientation disorientation… auditory hallucinations: screaming. Consistent, likely systemic," he muttered, jotting notes on the nearest clipboard that had spontaneously appeared in his hand.
A clerk with four eyes and a tongue shaped like a gavel sat nearby, rhythmically stamping documents in time with the wails echoing from nowhere. The sound was strangely syncopated, as if Hell had developed its own kind of jazz.
"Excuse me," Adrian said. "Is this Human Resources?"
The clerk didn't look up.
"Hell's Resentment Division," it said flatly. "We take everything personally."
"Excellent. That'll make feedback easy."
The clerk finally met his gaze, unimpressed. "You're here for processing."
Adrian scanned his surroundings—the endless queues, the molten ceiling lights, the faint scent of paperwork and despair. "I see. Is there a reason everything is on fire?"
"Budget cuts."
The answer was delivered with the weariness of eternity.
Without further ceremony, the clerk shoved a molten clipboard across the desk.
"Fill this out."
Adrian glanced at the first field.
REASON FOR DESPAIR:
He hesitated, then wrote, "Unclear job description."
The clipboard sizzled, flashed red, and branded his palm: PROVISIONAL STAFF.
Adrian watched the mark cool to black. "Is this a contract or a rash?"
The clerk shrugged. "Both."
He flipped the page. The next field read, "Preferred Eternal Assignment."
He considered writing retirement but settled on psychological assessment.
The paper immediately caught fire, then reformed with the words "Request Approved — Pending Torture Budget."
He sighed. "Of course."
The clerk stamped the top of the document with a sound like a gunshot.
"Welcome to Hell's Administrative Sector. Your complaints are encouraged but strictly non-actionable."
Adrian adjusted his tie. "Then I'd like to file a complaint about that."
"Appeals go to HR."
"You are HR."
"Exactly."
Adrian stared at the flaming clipboard for a long moment, then began muttering into the smoke like a man refusing to acknowledge absurdity's victory.
"If chaos follows procedure," he said, "perhaps the procedure is the disease."
He paused, tilting his head, listening to the eternal screams that filled the space between words.
"Diagnosis: collective cognitive dissonance."
The clerk handed him a pamphlet that read "SO YOU'VE BEEN DAMNED: A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR PROFESSIONALS."
He flipped through it. Most pages were blank. One section was highlighted in red ink:
STEP 1: Pretend you understand the process.
STEP 2: Never stop pretending.
He closed the booklet. "Ah," he said dryly. "Corporate training."
Somewhere above, an alarm wailed:
"THERAPIST-CLASS ENTITY DETECTED. INITIATING ETHICAL QUARANTINE."
The air warped. A column of smoke twisted itself into a humanoid silhouette—female, sharp, and carrying the kind of energy that could make even Lucifer check his tone.
Lilura stepped through, blazer half-buttoned, horns filed down to executive sharpness. Her eyes shimmered with over-caffeinated galaxies.
She looked Adrian up and down like an HR manager examining a particularly sentient lawsuit.
"You're the new containment protocol?"
"I'm a psychotherapist," Adrian said.
"Same thing down here."
She flipped through a set of floating papers that followed her like obedient bats. "You filed a complaint already?"
"Several."
She smirked. "Congratulations. You've just committed rebellion via proper channels."
Adrian studied her for a beat. "Does that make me an employee or a heretic?"
"Both. We love multitasking."
She flicked her pen, and a glowing seal appeared on his form:
Requisitioned — Public Distress Sector.
"Effective immediately," she said. "You're assigned to the Clinic."
He blinked. "Clinic?"
"You'll see."
They walked through the cubicle labyrinth, where the floor occasionally whispered performance reviews in the language of regret.
At one point, Adrian paused beside a line of demons waiting at a window marked APPEALS & APOLOGIES.
Each held a numbered ticket. None of the numbers ever changed.
He turned to Lilura. "If they're suffering forever, someone should at least listen."
The temperature in the corridor dropped two degrees.
Lilura frowned. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Empathize. It disrupts workflow."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're afraid of feelings in Hell?"
"I'm afraid of paperwork caused by feelings."
The Clinic of All Worlds looked like someone had tried to convert a medieval torture chamber into a wellness center using IKEA instructions and divine sarcasm.
Desks were fused from gravestones. Lava flowed through espresso machines. A motivational poster hung crooked on the wall:
"EVERY ETERNITY DESERVES A LITTLE STRUCTURE."
A demon receptionist with a neck made of typewriter keys greeted them with a dead stare. "Name?"
"Adrian Vale," he said.
The demon typed the name. The keys screamed with each letter. "Psychological Maintenance, Provisional. You'll report to the Noise Management Department."
"Noise?"
"You'll meet them soon," Lilura said. "Think of it as ambient despair. We've been trying to reduce the decibel levels for centuries."
"Have you considered therapy?"
She grinned. "We've considered extermination. It's more scalable."
Lilura guided him into a side office filled with filing cabinets that pulsed like slow heartbeats. She perched on the desk, watching him with a curiosity that wasn't quite trust.
"So, Adrian Vale," she said, "how exactly does a mortal therapist end up here?"
He glanced at the contract still smoking in his hand. "I died mid-session. Overextended empathy, apparently."
She snorted. "Classic rookie mistake."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "They said I tried to fix people faster than they were ready to heal."
"Sounds like Hell to me."
"Evidently."
She leaned closer. "You really think you can treat this place?"
He shrugged. "Everything screams for a reason. Even bureaucracy."
That made her laugh—short, surprised, and a little dangerous.
The clerk from before appeared in the doorway holding another document, this one dripping molten ink. "Sign here."
Adrian read the title:
PROVISIONAL CONTRACT — THERAPEUTIC MAINTENANCE.
He frowned. "I assume declining isn't an option?"
The clerk smiled with all four eyes. "We love optimism."
He signed. The paper hissed, sealing itself in sulfurous wax. Somewhere in the distance, a chorus of cubicles applauded.
Lilura straightened her blazer. "Congratulations, Doctor. You're now officially part of Hell's wellness initiative."
"Do I get a welcome package?"
"You get to keep your sanity, assuming you can file the right forms for it."
"Reasonable benefits."
As the clerk shuffled away, Adrian glanced back at the rows of cubicles—each a small world of endless repetition, each voice trapped in its own procedural torment.
He felt something shift, almost imperceptible—a quiet beneath the screaming.
For a second, Hell seemed to inhale.
He said softly, "If chaos can fill out paperwork, there's hope for bureaucracy yet."
Lilura smirked. "Try not to heal anyone too fast, Doctor. It messes up the metrics."
The fluorescent halos flickered above them, humming in agreement.
Adrian adjusted his tie, lifted his clipboard, and exhaled. "Day one," he said. "Objective: implement triage protocol. Secondary objective: pretend this makes sense."
He stepped into the corridor. The clipboard glowed faintly in his hand—logic taking root in madness.
Behind him, the intercom crackled:
"Welcome to Hell's Administrative Sector. Please remain seated while your despair is processed."
Adrian paused just long enough to mutter, "At least someone's processing something."
Then he walked on, pen steady, eyes sharp, ready to audit eternity.
A dead man in Hell, armed only with procedure and patience, begins his audit of eternity.
If the damned can file for better service, perhaps there's hope yet for humanity.