Next

Kai measured the loose-leaf by pinches, not spoons.

Seven curls of black tea, rolled tight as sleeping insects, went into the strainer.

The kettle sighed.

He watched the thermometer clipped to its side climb, eyes steady, waiting for the precise mark.

The waiting light on the intercom on his desk blinked with steady insistence.

Kai poured the tea, the stream was thin and quiet, a controlled ribbon. Steam rose and curled around his face as he breathed it in, slow. One sip. The heat settled behind his eyes. He sat at his desk and gently set the cup down with a soft click.

He pressed the intercom button, and said, “Next”.

A middle-aged man appeared a few feet in front of his desk. He wore a plain blue suit, worn thin at the elbows. With a briefcase clutched to his chest, the strap twisted tight around his fingers. His eyes darted across the room, confusion widening his eyes.

“Where—”

Kai glanced at the translucent file that had already materialized above his hand. It hovered, pages turning themselves.

“Sixty-hour weeks,” Kai read. “No overtime pay.”

The man swallowed.

Kai looked up with practiced sympathy. “You’ve earned this.”

“Earned what?” The man’s knuckles whitened around the briefcase handle. “Am I… am I in trouble? Is this—”

“You’re not in trouble,” Kai said calmly. “You’ve passed on from your previous life. And you’ve been selected for reassignment.”

“Wait.” His voice cracked. “I’m... I died?”

Kai nodded as the file turned a page. “Lightning strike. Freak storm. You were gone before you hit the ground.”

The man stared at him, horror and relief wrestling in his face.

"I don't remember."

"Most don't." Kai closed the file with a gentle flick. "Memory is not the part of you we prioritize here."

The file dissolved as Kai set it down.

"Your next placement is a farming-type world," he continued. "Abundant magic. Seasonal monster uprisings. Your work ethic will translate well. Simple tools at first. Steady growth. Community."

The man's breath hitched. "Magic?"

Kai nodded.

"It will be difficult," he said, because honesty made the comfort feel earned. "But it will be yours. A life that belongs to you."

The man's grip loosened on the briefcase. He didn't ask anymore. They rarely did once the second chance had a shape.

Kai lifted two fingers.

Golden light wrapped around the man. A flash. A sound like a page turning.

And he was gone.

Kai reached for his cup. Another sip. The waiting light blinked again.

He pressed the intercom.

"Next."

The office shifted before the next client fully arrived.

The glass walls warmed into wood. The harsh overhead light became lamplight. A small bookshelf appeared behind Kai's chair, filled with worn spines that looked chosen for comfort rather than intimidation. His suit melted into a cardigan and wrinkled slacks, sleeves rolled with a soft expression like someone who had all the time in the world to listen.

A teenage boy stood where the salaryman had stood, shoulders hunched like he expected hands to grab him from behind. His clothes were tattered. A torn bookbag hung from one arm, half-empty, the strap frayed. His eyes were too wide.

"Where am I?" the boy demanded.

"You've passed on from your previous life," Kai said gently. "But you've been chosen. Your soul qualifies for dimensional transfer."

The boy shook his head. "No. I... I didn't!"

"You died," Kai confirmed with the calm of a doctor delivering certainty.

The boy's knees nearly buckled. He grabbed the chair.

"I don't remember dying," he whispered. "I don't remember anything after... after—"

Kai's expression softened further. He could do kind. Kind was useful.

"Trauma blocks it out," Kai said. "Mercy, really. Most don't carry the end with them. The mind refuses to wrap itself around pain."

The boy swallowed, and the fear shifted—still fear, but now mixed with something else. Confusion. Vulnerability.

Kai raised a hand.

A tablet appeared in the air between them, hovering at eye-level. Bright gold letters flashed at the top:

SKILL DRAFT

Below, a roulette wheel spun with more segments than the boy could count. Words flickered past in quick succession:

FLAME CONTROL — BEAST TAMER — INVENTORY — GOD'S FAVOR — STEEL SKIN — ARCANE SIGHT — SWORD MASTERY — HEALING TOUCH

At the bottom: a large STOP button.

And smaller instructions:

TEN ROLLS. LOCK UP TO THREE SKILLS. PREMIUM REBIRTH ACTIVE.

The boy stared, fear giving way to awe.

"This is like a game…"

Kai watched the hook set.

"It will feel that way," he said. "Premium rebirth. That means you keep your memories, gain accelerated growth, and receive unique skills. You will not be helpless."

The boy swallowed hard. "How did I die?"

Kai didn't hesitate.

"Truck," he said. "Ran a red light. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You didn't suffer."

The boy flinched as if the word itself hit him. Then his gaze snapped back to the spinning skills. Distraction did what distraction always did. It gave the mind something it could influence when everything else had already happened.

Kai leaned forward, hands folded.

"You'll wake in the Kingdom of Doras," he said. "At first, an orphanage. A few years to learn the language, the customs. Then—" He tilted his head, almost conspiratorial. "You'll be discovered as a noble's lost heir."

The boy hesitated once—then his fingers found the stop button.

The wheel slowed. Landed. Again. Again.

He chose three skills with shaking hands.

Golden light took him.

Kai watched the space where the boy had stood for a moment longer than necessary.

Then the office returned to glass and steel.

And so it continued.

A college student—rooftop fall. A gamer girl—aneurysm, quick and clean.

Each arrived disoriented, each received orientation, each was offered a world shaped like their longing. Each disappeared in golden light.

Kai poured another cup of tea.

The waiting light blinked.

He straightened his tie.

Pressed the intercom.

"Next."

Nothing happened.

The intercom crackled.

"You're coming to my office, Kai."

Kai's spine went rigid.

He removed his finger from the button. Slowly. Composed.

"Understood," he said.

The world folded.

The comforting office vanished, replaced by a sterile conference room. White walls. Too-bright lighting that made every shadow look like an error. A long table sat in the center, perfectly polished, reflecting the ceiling lights like a blade.

At the head of the table sat Kai.

Not him.

Another.

Same suit. Same hair. Same face—only colder. His nametag read:

KAI-07

COMPLIANCE OFFICER — INTERNAL AUDIT DIVISION

Kai stood at the doorway, hands at his sides. Still. Professional. But the air here was not his. The room didn't respond to his presence. It didn't soften. It didn't transform.

07 tapped a single finger on the table.

"You've had a busy cycle," 07 said.

"I stay productive," Kai replied.

"Too productive."

A pause. The kind of pause that wasn't silence, but pressure.

07 slid a thin folder across the table. It stopped exactly in front of the chair opposite him, like the table itself knew where things belonged.

"We've been reviewing your cases," 07 continued.

Kai didn't move to sit yet. He simply waited.

"Ninety-eight point six percent of your assigned candidates die within twelve hours of being flagged for reassignment."

Kai's face didn't change.

"The system prioritizes unfulfilled potential," Kai said carefully. "Those individuals are… accessible."

07's lips twitched.

"Accessible," he echoed, and leaned forward. "Interesting word."

Kai finally pulled out the chair and sat. Smooth. Controlled.

07 opened the folder, not to show Kai the pages, but to read them like a judge reading charges aloud.

"The salaryman," 07 said. "Heart attack at his desk."

Kai's eyes remained on 07's face.

"Except," 07 continued, voice sharpening, "you were the coworker who convinced him to skip lunch. Take another shift. Ignore the chest pains."

Kai's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"I expedited," he started.

07 didn't let him finish.

"The gamer girl," 07 said. "Aneurysm."

Kai didn't blink.

"Except you were the one who set her stimulant dosage recommendation in the health app she trusted."

Kai's hands stayed folded.

"The retired teacher," 07 said, and his tone shifted for a moment—less accusation, more something like disgust. "Pneumonia. Natural. That one you didn't touch. You want credit for restraint?"

Kai didn't answer.

07 flipped a page.

"And now," he said softly, "the girl in the hospital."

Kai's eyes flickered. A crack. A hairline fracture in composure.

07 noticed. Of course he did.

"Power outage," 07 read. "Backup failure. Tragic. Unavoidable."

He closed the folder with a quiet snap.

"Except you were the one who tripped the backup generator."

The room felt smaller.

Kai's voice came out even, but the steel underneath showed.

"These worlds need them," he said. "The prophecies don't fulfill themselves. Demon lords don't get defeated by… by farmers who never touched a sword. The narrative cohesion collapses. Entire realms destabilize. If I don't supply—"

"If you don't murder," 07 corrected, voice flat.

Kai's eyes hardened.

"I'm not killing them," he said, and the lie in it was only in the language. "I'm repurposing tragedy. I'm taking the inevitable suffering of a world without magic, without meaning, and redirecting it toward a purpose."

07 stared at him like he was staring at a machine trying to claim it had a soul.

"You are a dispatcher," 07 said. "Not a god."

Kai's hands unfolded. He placed them on the table, palms down, as if claiming territory.

"No," Kai said quietly. "I'm the only one willing to do what the system requires."

For the first time, his voice carried heat.

"You want your quarterly reports?" he continued. "Your stabilized realms? Your hero-to-villain arcs that resolve cleanly? Someone has to source the souls. Someone has to ensure the storylines don't collapse into dead ends."

07's gaze didn't waver.

"If you were anyone else," 07 said, "you'd be decommissioned."

Kai didn't move.

"But your numbers are too good," 07 continued. "The Council won't authorize a shutdown."

Silence. Heavy.

"So this is your warning," 07 said. "No more improvisation. No more 'expediting.' Assigned candidates only."

Kai stared at him.

Then, slowly, nodded once.

07 stood. The chair didn't scrape. It simply moved, silent, like the room didn't allow disorder.

"And Kai," 07 said, leaning forward slightly. "If even one client figures out what you've done…"

He let the sentence hang.

Kai's throat worked. Once.

"…you're done," 07 finished.

The conference room folded away.

Kai was back in his office.

The tea on his desk had gone cold.

He looked at it for a long moment. The surface of the liquid was still. Dark. Reflective. Like a small window into something he refused to name.

Then he poured it out.

Made a fresh cup.

Pinches, not spoons. Temperature exact.

One sip.

He pressed the intercom.

"Next."

The door shimmered.

A girl appeared.

Hospital gown. Bare feet. Skin pallid. Hair damp as if someone had wiped her forehead too many times. Her throat worked as she breathed, each inhale scraping.

"What… is this?" she rasped. "Where… am I?"

Kai didn't let the flicker in his chest reach his face. He chose warmth. Chose softness.

He snapped his fingers.

The office transformed—not into corporate sterility, not into a cozy study, but into a tea-room that looked like it had been designed by someone who had studied comfort in textbooks. A wide table, two chairs. Soft light. A spread of sweets: crustless sandwiches, small cakes, pastries, scones, fruit arranged like offerings.

Kai moved with careful grace, pouring tea into two cups. He placed one in front of the empty chair opposite him.

"Please," he said, smile gentle. "Sit. I've prepared—"

"Where am I?" she repeated, louder this time, though her voice broke under the effort.

Kai kept his tone smooth.

"In transition," he said. "Between lives. I know this is disorienting, but you're about to become someone extraordinary."

She didn't move.

Her eyes fixed on the table. The tea. The sweets. The deliberate arrangement of mercy.

"I didn't ask for extraordinary," she whispered.

Kai's fingers tightened around the teapot handle. Only slightly.

"I asked where I am."

Kai set the teapot down slowly.

"You are safe," he said. "You were suffering. The machines were failing. The power—"

"I saw you."

The words were small. Flat. The kind of sentence that didn't rise in volume because it didn't need to.

Kai froze.

He recovered quickly—too quickly. Smile intact.

"I'm afraid you're confused," he said, voice still kind.

She swallowed, and her throat made a wet sound.

"In the hospital room," she rasped. "You were standing by the window when the lights went out."

Kai's eyes stayed on hers. He didn't blink.

The intercom light blinked in the distance, out of place here. Waiting. Insistent.

Kai's smile softened, as if sympathy could overwrite reality.

"You were fading," he said. "In pain. The machines were the only thing tethering you. I gave you mercy."

Her eyes glistened. Tears didn't fall. She didn't have the strength for them.

"I didn't want mercy," she said, voice cracking. "I wanted time."

Kai leaned forward slightly, as if closing the distance might close the gap in belief.

"And now you'll have eternity," he said. "A body that doesn't fail. A world where your lungs don't betray you in the dark. A purpose. A chance."

He waved a hand.

A tablet appeared on the table between them. The gold letters at the top pulsed gently, inviting.

SKILL DRAFT

Ten rolls. Three locks. Premium rebirth.

He slid it toward her with two fingers.

"You can be angry," Kai said. "You can hate me. But you can't deny what I'm offering."

She stared at the tablet as if it were a weapon.

Then she looked back at him.

In her gaze was something Kai rarely saw in this room.

Not disbelief.

Recognition.

Not awe.

Choice.

A long silence stretched between them, thick enough to choke on.

Her hand shook as she reached for the tablet.

Kai didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't interrupt.

Her fingers closed around it.

Golden light rose around her like a tide.

Just before the flash took her, her eyes met his one last time.

Not forgiving.

Not grateful.

But taking.

Then she was gone.

Kai sat alone at the table.

The second cup of tea—untouched—steamed softly.

Her cup.

She hadn't sat. Hadn't sipped. Hadn't played the role he'd written.

She'd taken his offer, but refused his narrative.

The intercom blinked.

Kai reached for his own cup. The tea had gone cold.

He poured it out.

Started again.

"Next."