The staircase leads to another chamber.
It's not as big as the Heart's cavern, but it's worse in its own way.
Rows of desks stretch endlessly, each one occupied by creatures — some humanoid, some definitely not — hunched over paperwork, scribbling with claws, tentacles, or things I don't have words for. The room smells like old paper, blood, and metal.
And in the center, at the far end of this bureaucratic hellscape, a massive glowing sigil floats above a fleshy podium.
Scribe hovers beside me, far too cheerful for the setting. "Welcome to Processing. Time to become an official resident."
"This looks like a DMV from Hell," I mutter.
"Accurate."
---
A robed figure at the nearest desk waves me over. Its arms are too long, its fingers jointed wrong. The mask covering its face looks like bone carved into a permanent frown.
"Sit," it says, voice hollow.
The chair it gestures to is alive. It pulses under me when I sit, like it's taking my weight personally.
"Name," the figure drones.
"Kael," I say.
It scratches the name onto a sheet of skin — actual skin, stitched into a scroll.
"Former designation?"
"Uh… delivery guy?"
It pauses. "Cause of death?"
"Bus."
It nods, like this is perfectly normal. "Purpose?"
"Surviving," I say.
It actually chuckles. A dry, rasping sound. "You'll need more than that."
---
The questioning goes on for what feels like hours. Birth date. Blood type. First memory. Worst fear.
Scribe leans over my shoulder, humming. "Oh, this part's my favorite. They get to your trauma soon."
And then they do.
"Do you regret dying?" the clerk asks.
I freeze.
"Do you?" it presses.
"Yes," I say finally.
"Do you resent the living?"
"…No?"
It scribbles something.
"Do you resent the dead?"
I pause. "You're gonna have to define dead."
It chuckles again. "That's the right answer."
---
Finally, the clerk pushes the skin-scroll toward me.
"Place your hand," it says.
The sigil above the podium glows brighter.
I look at Scribe. "This safe?"
"Absolutely not," it says. "But necessary."
Great.
I press my hand to the scroll.
Pain lances up my arm instantly. Like fire and ice and electricity all at once. I yank, but my hand won't move. It's stuck.
The clerk chants something in a language I don't know, and the scroll absorbs my blood, my skin, my name.
When it finally lets go, my palm is glowing with a new symbol.
"Congratulations," the clerk says, voice still flat. "You are now a citizen of the City of Veins."
Scribe claps. "Officially in the system. Oh, the fun you'll have."
I stare at my hand, the glowing mark still burning. "What does this mean?"
The Heart's voice echoes in my skull:
"Welcome, Kael Idiran. Your game begins."
And then everything goes dark.