The Reluctant Reaper

Welcome to the Department

Hell smelled like paper. That's what they don't tell you topside. Sure, there was the usual brimstone and despair hanging in the air, but mostly it was paper. Forms in triplicate, soul receipts, interdepartmental memos—the bureaucracy of damnation ran on an endless stream of paperwork.

Darius Thorne stood in the lobby of the Department of Soul Acquisition, or DoSA as they called it, watching the chaos unfold. New day, same old Hell. Literally.

A harried-looking demon rushed past, his arms full of scrolls that trailed behind him like party streamers. "Coming through!" he shouted, narrowly avoiding a collision with a group of junior reapers. The reapers scattered, their black robes fluttering. One of them, a nervous-looking kid who couldn't have been dead more than a decade, dropped his scythe. It clattered to the floor, drawing annoyed looks from the more seasoned staff.

Darius sighed. Newbies.

"Thorne!" a voice barked. He turned to see Malakai, his supervisor, stomping towards him. He was a squat demon with skin like boiled leather and a personality to match. "You're late. Again."

Darius checked his watch—a little number he'd picked up from a dead clockmaker in Munich. It never lost a second, even in Hell's twisted timestream. "Actually, I'm two minutes early."

Malakai's eyes narrowed. All six of them. "Don't get smart with me, Thorne. You've got assignments piling up. The boys upstairs are breathing down my neck about our quotas."

Darius bit back a smirk. The idea of demons worrying about quotas still tickled him, even after all this time. "Relax, Mal. When have I ever let you down?"

Malakai snorted, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Just get to work. And try not to break any more regulations this week, yeah? The paperwork's killing me."

As Malakai waddled off, Darius couldn't help but wonder if he realized the irony of his statement. Death by paperwork in a place where they were all already dead. Hell had a sense of humor, he'd give it that.

Darius made his way to his cubicle—yes, Hell had cubicles. Dante really missed a trick there. As he walked, he nodded to familiar faces. There was Ezra, a fallen angel who now worked in Logistics. He gave Darius a wan smile, his halo flickering weakly above his head like a dying lightbulb.

At the water cooler (filled with something that was definitely not water), Darius spotted Vera and Nyx, two of the most efficient reapers in the department. They were huddled together, whispering. As he passed, he caught snippets of their conversation.

"...heard it was a whole playground. In seconds."

"No way. Not even Thorne could—"

They fell silent as they noticed him. Vera, tall and willowy with skin the color of midnight, offered a tight smile. Nyx, shorter and built like a boxer, just nodded curtly.

Darius didn't bother correcting their gossip. Let them talk. Fear and respect were currencies down here, and he'd learned to stockpile both.

Finally, he reached his desk. A mountain of files teetered precariously in his inbox. Each one a soul, waiting to be processed, collected, ferried to its final reward. Or punishment, more likely. This was Hell, after all.

Darius sank into his chair—ergonomically designed to be just slightly uncomfortable—and booted up his computer. The screen flickered to life, the DoSA logo spinning lazily: a scythe crossed with a fountain pen.

As he logged in, a notification popped up. New message from L.S. His stomach did a little flip. Lilith Shadowborn, the big boss herself, reaching out directly? This couldn't be good.

He opened the message, his eyes scanning the terse lines:

"Thorne,

Special assignment. My office. Now.

Don't keep me waiting.

- L.S."

Darius leaned back, ignoring the chair's protest, and ran a hand through his hair. A special assignment from Lilith could mean anything from a VIP soul collection to... well, let's just say he'd seen reapers go into her office and never come out.

As he stood, his gaze fell on the small mirror he kept on his desk. His reflection stared back, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of the man he used to be. The soldier. The leader. The one who got his team killed.

He blinked, and it was gone. In its place was what he'd become: Darius Thorne, rising star of the Department of Soul Acquisition. Hell's most effective reaper.

And the one with the most to lose.

Darius straightened his tie—regulation black, of course—and headed for Lilith's office. Whatever this special assignment was, he had a feeling things in Hell were about to get a lot more interesting.

And in this place, interesting was never, ever good.

***