Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 82: "Welcome to the New Bureau"
Morning sunlight cut through the smog of mortal rooftops, landing squarely on a cracked sign that read:
"Heavenly Reincarnation Bureau (Temporary Branch) — Under Reconstruction"
A paper talisman flapped weakly beside it, held in place by duct tape. The door creaked open, and out stepped Ne Job, holding a half-broken broom like a sword.
> "I'm telling you, Yue, this can't be legal. We went from divine marble halls to a—what even is this? An abandoned photocopy shop?"
Yue, standing inside with a clipboard and an unshakable calm, didn't look up from her forms.
> "It's called restructuring. We're under mortal jurisdiction now. The divine audit division was merged with the Department of Reincarnation Licensing. This location was affordable."
> "Affordable?" Ne Job jabbed the broom at a suspicious stain on the wall. "Something died here, Yue."
> "Then file an incident report."
The intern groaned. "You've been dying to say that, haven't you?"
Yue allowed herself the faintest smirk. She looked exhausted — her robe sleeves rolled up, a mortal pen tucked behind her ear. Her divine glow was gone, replaced by the dull blue light of an LED bulb flickering above.
The desk was covered in mismatched paperwork: reincarnation forms, soul receipts, mortal tax slips, and one sticky note labeled 'DO NOT FEED THE SPIRIT PRINTER' in capital letters.
A low whir echoed. The old printer on the floor coughed, spat out a puff of smoke, and printed a page that immediately burst into spectral flame.
Ne Job blinked. "You kept the printer from Heaven?"
> "It followed me," Yue said flatly.
> "That's not comforting!"
Before she could respond, a soft bell rang above the door. Their first mortal applicant walked in — a balding man in a cheap suit, holding a faintly glowing jar. Inside the jar floated a goldfish.
> "Uh, hi," the man said. "Is this the reincarnation office? My grandmother's soul seems to have… relocated."
Yue straightened. "Please fill out Form 17-R, section C for aquatic reincarnation irregularities."
Ne Job blinked. "Wait, what?"
Yue handed the man a three-page form without hesitation. The goldfish burped.
The man squinted at the paper. "What's a 'cross-species continuity clause'?"
> "It determines whether your grandmother retains her memories between species. Most prefer the 'selective amnesia' option."
Ne Job raised a hand. "Or, you know, just get her a better bowl. It's cheaper."
Yue shot him a warning look.
The man left confused but oddly reassured, clutching his form. The doorbell jingled behind him.
Ne Job sighed, collapsing into the nearest chair. "This is what divine reincarnation's become? Paperwork and goldfish therapy?"
> "This is divine reincarnation," Yue replied, setting the new directive log aside. "It always was. We just removed the marble."
He looked around again — at the mess, the dust, the faint light pouring through cracked blinds. For the first time, he didn't see Heaven. He saw something else.
A beginning.
> "You really think this'll work?" he asked. "Mortal bureaucracy replacing divine judgment?"
Yue paused, glancing toward the sunlight. "Maybe not perfectly. But perfection was never the point."
She looked at him — really looked, her eyes soft but steady. "Mortals deserve systems that forgive. That learn."
He tilted his head. "That… make mistakes?"
> "Exactly," she said. "Even interns."
A moment of silence hung between them — awkward, but warm. Then the printer sputtered again, this time spitting out a glowing envelope.
Yue caught it midair. The seal was unmistakable: the spiral emblem of the Shard Court.
She tore it open. Inside was a single line, written in gold:
> "Directive Continuation: Earth Branch #01 officially recognized. Intern probation extended indefinitely."
Ne Job groaned. "Of course. Infinite internship. My nightmare has gone full-time."
Yue smiled, just barely. "Welcome to the new Bureau, Ne Job."
He leaned back, broom still in hand, muttering, "Should've taken that transfer to the Department of Ghost Delivery…"
Outside, the sun rose higher — washing over the makeshift Bureau, the reborn world, and two unlikely bureaucrats standing at the threshold of something absurdly hopeful.
The age of gods was over.
The paperwork, however, had only just begun.