The orientation video was seventeen hours long, consisted primarily of workplace safety regulations, and featured a soundtrack that was exclusively Nickelback's greatest hits played at quarter-speed.
By the time it ended, Lin felt more dead inside than when he'd actually died. A perky woman in a blazer that was somehow both too large and too small simultaneously approached the front of the room.
"Hi there, damned souls! I'm Brittany from Human—well, I guess not Human anymore, right?—from Afterlife Resources. Let's get you all processed and ready for your eternal suffering!"
Lin raised his hand.
"Yes, you with the look of existential horror? Question?"
"Is this really Hell? It seems more like an office retreat gone wrong."
Brittany's smile didn't waver. "That's adorable! You were expecting fire and brimstone, weren't you? We rebranded in the 14th century. Market research showed that physical torture was actually less effective than bureaucratic inconvenience and mundane frustration. Now, if everyone could form a line in order of arrival—"
The room erupted into chaos as everyone tried to determine when they had arrived relative to others. Lin found himself shoved to the back of the line.
Three hours later, he finally reached Brittany's desk.
"Name?" she asked, fingers hovering over a keyboard connected to a computer that appeared to be running Windows 95.
"Lin Wong."
"Cause of death?"
"Accidental fall while contemplating suicide."
Brittany clicked her tongue. "Suicide adjacent. That's Subsection 7B. Let me just..." She tapped at the keyboard, frowning when the computer made the Windows error sound. "Not again. Have you tried turning it off and on again?" she muttered to herself, smacking the side of the monitor.
The screen flickered, then displayed Lin's information, including an unflattering photo of him mid-fall.
"Ah, here we are. Lin Wong. Thirty-two years old. Mediocre academic performance. Unremarkable career. No significant relationships. Failed to achieve potential. Habitually procrastinated. Regularly ignored calls from mother."
"That's a bit harsh," Lin protested.
"Oh, this isn't your judgment," Brittany clarified. "This is just your LinkedIn profile."
She clicked another button, and a printer somewhere beneath the desk whirred to life, spitting out a badge with Lin's name and the word "TEMP" in large red letters.
"Here's your identification. Don't lose it. Replacement fee is one eternal torment, no exchanges or refunds."
"What happens now?"
Brittany consulted her screen again. "Let's see... based on your profile, you've been assigned to... oh, interesting."
"What? What is it?"
"You've been assigned to the Corporate Division. That's unusual for first-timers."
"Is that good?"
Brittany's smile became slightly strained. "It's... character building. Take this elevator pass and go to floor Negative 87. Ask for Derek."
The elevator music was "The Girl from Ipanema," but only the first eight notes played on repeat with occasional random static interruptions. By the time Lin reached floor Negative 87, he had considered clawing his own ears off, only to remember he was already dead and probably couldn't inflict further damage on himself.
The doors opened to reveal what appeared to be an ordinary office floor: cubicles, fluorescent lighting that was somehow both too bright and too dim simultaneously, and the distant sound of a copy machine perpetually jamming.
A man in a rumpled suit approached. "You must be the new guy. I'm Derek." He didn't offer his hand.
"Lin. Are you the devil?"
Derek laughed, a sound like dry leaves being crushed. "No, no. The devil's much higher up. CEO level. I'm middle management. Assistant to the Regional Demon of Despair."
"So, what happens now? Torture? Eternal flames?"
Derek looked at Lin with something resembling pity. "You really are new, aren't you? Follow me."
They walked through the office floor, passing cubicles where damned souls stared vacantly at computer screens or talked on phones with expressions of increasing frustration.
"Hell isn't about physical torture anymore," Derek explained. "We've evolved. Modern psychological research has shown that humans are much better at tormenting themselves than we could ever be. Give someone an eternity of mundane frustration, pointless tasks, and the illusion of progress without any actual advancement—that's true suffering."
They stopped at an empty cubicle. The desk held a computer that appeared to be from the late 1990s, a phone with several buttons labeled "HOLD," and a small cactus that somehow looked both dessicated and overwatered.
"This is yours," Derek said. "Your job is simple. You'll receive complaint forms from various departments in Hell. Your task is to file them properly."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
Derek's smile was thin. "The filing system changes every day. You'll never be told the new system. And every form you file incorrectly results in a performance review."
"How often are the performance reviews?"
"That depends on how badly you're doing. Some people have them hourly. Our record holder is every twelve minutes."
Lin sank into his chair, which immediately adjusted to become slightly too low for the desk. "How long do I have to do this?"
"Forever," Derek said simply. "Oh, and orientation didn't mention this, but there's a dress code. Business casual. You'll find appropriate attire in your drawer. The shirts always have one sleeve slightly longer than the other, and the pants are made of a material that makes you sweat, but only behind the knees."
He handed Lin a thick manual titled "Proper Filing Procedures, Volume 1 of 742."
"First forms arrive in ten minutes. Good luck."
After what felt like several eternities of filing (which, Lin realized, it very well might have been), a bell rang throughout the office.
"End of shift," Derek announced, appearing suddenly at Lin's cubicle. "Time to head home."
"Home? We get homes in Hell?"
"Of course. Work-afterlife balance is important. Studies show that continuous torture becomes normalized after a few centuries. We find it more effective to give damned souls a brief respite, just enough to remind them of comfort before snatching it away again."
Derek handed Lin a small card with an address. "Housing district Omega-12, building 9,724, unit 666B. The commute builds character."
"How do I get there?"
"Same as everyone else. Public transportation."
The "bus stop" was a small metal pole with no sign, no bench, and no shelter from what appeared to be a light drizzle of something that wasn't quite water—it felt oilier, and smelled faintly of expired milk.
After waiting for forty-five minutes, a vehicle finally approached. It resembled a bus in the same way that a child's crayon drawing resembles the Mona Lisa—the basic concept was there, but the execution was deeply disturbing.
The doors wheezed open. The driver, a creature with too many eyes and what appeared to be gills, grunted, "Pass?"
"I don't have a pass," Lin admitted.
"New arrival discount," the driver sighed, holding out a gnarled hand. "Three memories. Happy ones only."
"What?"
"Three happy memories. Payment. Can't ride for free."
Lin hesitated. "How do I..."
"Just think of them. I'll do the rest."
Reluctantly, Lin closed his eyes and thought of his college graduation, the time he won a photography contest in high school, and his tenth birthday when his parents took him to the amusement Wong.
A cold sensation passed through his head, like brain freeze but more targeted. When he opened his eyes, he could still remember the events, but they felt distant, hollow, as if they had happened to someone else.
"Boarding pass," the driver grunted, handing Lin a ticket that read "VALID FOR ONE JOURNEY INTO DEEPER DESPAIR."
The interior of the bus was standing room only, despite being nearly empty. The few seats that existed were designed for a body structure completely unlike human anatomy, with odd angles and protrusions in places that guaranteed discomfort.
Lin clung to a hanging strap that was positioned just slightly too high, forcing him to stand on tiptoe. The bus lurched forward with a sound like a dying whale.
The journey took three hours and seventeen minutes. The bus stopped at every possible point along the route, often in places where no one got on or off. Occasionally, the driver would announce, "Unexpected delay," without elaboration, and the bus would sit motionless for several minutes before continuing.
The scenery outside the windows shifted between various bleak landscapes: industrial wastelands, abandoned office Wongs, and at one point what appeared to be a never-ending Wonging lot where every space was just slightly too small for the vehicles attempting to Wong in them.
Finally, the bus wheezed to a stop at a dilapidated station. "Omega-12," the driver announced. "All out for eternal residential dissatisfaction."
Housing district Omega-12 was a sprawling complex of identical apartment buildings, each one slightly askew, as if designed by an architect who had only a passing familiarity with right angles. The buildings were painted in colors that couldn't quite be named—not quite beige, not quite gray, but somehow managing to be more depressing than either.
Lin found building 9,724 after walking in circles for what felt like hours. The elevator was out of order, so he climbed to the sixth floor, wheezing despite being dead and presumably not needing oxygen.
Unit 666B had a door that stuck slightly, requiring just enough force to open that Lin rammed his shoulder into it every time. The interior was exactly what he had expected: a studio apartment laid out in such a way that no furniture arrangement would ever feel right. The bathroom door didn't close properly, the kitchen sink dripped at irregular intervals, and the thermostat appeared to be decorative rather than functional.
On the small kitchen counter sat a note:
Welcome to your eternal residence. Please note the following:
Water is available between 3:17 AM and 4:03 AM only.
2. Electricity fluctuates based on the mood of the building supervisor.
3. Your neighbor in 666A practices trombone between midnight and 5 AM.
4. Your neighbor in 666C has seventeen cats (all of them in heat).
5. Rent is due on days ending in 'y'.
P.S. Your kitchen sink requires immediate attention. All maintenance requests must be submitted in triplicate to the office, which is closed indefinitely for renovations.
Lin looked at the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes that hadn't been there when he first entered the apartment. As he stared, another dirty plate materialized on top of the stack with a soft plop.
He approached cautiously. Another dish appeared. Then another. And another. The rate was increasing.
In a panic, Lin turned on the faucet—miraculously, water came out—and began washing dishes as quickly as he could. But for every dish he cleaned and set aside, three more appeared in the sink. Soon, dishes were piling up on the counter, then the floor.
"No, no, no," Lin muttered, scrubbing frantically.
A knock at the door distracted him. Wading through the dishes that now reached his knees, Lin opened the door to find a small, impish creature in a maintenance uniform.
"Sink problem?" the creature asked, consulting a clipboard.
"Yes! Help me!"
The creature nodded, made a check mark on its clipboard, and said, "Scheduled for repair in approximately never." It handed Lin a business card that read:
SISYPHUS PLUMBING
"We don't fix problems, we just acknowledge them"
"Wait!" Lin called as the creature turned to leave. "What am I supposed to do about all these dishes?"
"Wash them, obviously," the creature replied. "It's your eternal punishment. Didn't they tell you? Everyone gets a personalized torment based on their mortal failings. You consistently left dishes in the sink for days in your apartment. Now you get to wash dishes forever."
"But I can't keep up!"
The creature shrugged. "That's the point. Welcome to Hell, Mr. Wong. Enjoy your dirty dishes."
As the door closed, Lin looked back at the kitchen, now almost completely filled with dirty plates, bowls, and utensils. A mug appeared with a cheerful clink, bearing the slogan "World's Okayest Employee"—the same mug from his desk at Pinnacle Solutions.
With a scream of frustration, Lin lunged at the sink, determined to at least make a dent in the endless pile. Hours passed. Days, perhaps. Time had no meaning as Lin scrubbed and rinsed and dried, only to find more dishes appearing faster than he could clean them.
Finally, exhausted beyond measure, he collapsed onto the pile of dishes covering what had once been his bed. As his eyes closed, he heard a distant, mechanical beeping.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Lin's hand shot out automatically, searching for the snooze button. His fingers connected with a familiar plastic shape, and the beeping stopped.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the morning light filtering through cheap blinds. He was in his apartment—his real apartment, not the hellish version. No dishes filled the room. No impish maintenance creatures lurked in the hallway.
With a groan, Lin sat up and rubbed his face. It had been a dream. An incredibly vivid, detailed nightmare about suicide, purgatory, and an eternity of administrative torment.
"Jesus," he muttered, reaching for his phone to check the time. 7:15 AM. He was going to be late for work.
Lin showered and dressed in a hurry, grabbing a granola bar for breakfast as he rushed out the door. The hallway looked normal. His neighbors' doors were closed, with no sounds of trombone practice or mating cats emanating from behind them.
Outside, the weather was clear—no oily drizzle, no inexplicable darkness. The bus arrived on time and had normal seats designed for human anatomy. No one asked him for happy memories as payment.
By the time Lin arrived at Pinnacle Solutions, he had almost convinced himself that everything was fine. Just a stress dream. Nothing more.
He swiped his keycard at the entrance, relieved when the light turned green and the door unlocked. In the elevator, he pressed the button for the fourth floor and leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. The dream had felt so real, but here he was, back in his normal life.
The elevator doors opened, and Lin stepped out into the office. He waved to the receptionist, who smiled blandly in return, and made his way to his cubicle.
Sitting down at his desk, Lin booted up his computer and took a sip from his "World's Okayest Employee" mug. As he waited for the system to load, he opened his drawer to retrieve a pen.
Inside was a single Post-it note—neon green.
On it, written in handwriting that wasn't his, were the words:
Welcome back. —D
Lin stared at the note, a cold sensation spreading through his chest. The computer finished booting up, revealing an email notification at the top of his screen:
SUBJECT: IMPORTANT - Office Supply Usage and Etiquette
FROM: Brenda, HR