Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 83: "Case File 001: The Poltergeist Who Filed for Overtime"
The day started normally — which, for the new Heavenly Reincarnation Bureau (Temporary Branch), meant everything was already on fire.
Literally.
Ne Job sprinted across the room waving a mop, trying to extinguish a stack of smoldering documents. "YUE! THE SPIRIT PRINTER IS POSSESSED AGAIN!"
Yue didn't look up from her desk. "Tell it to take a number."
> "It's biting the numbers!"
Sure enough, the printer's paper tray had developed jagged teeth, gnawing on a ticket strip that read 'Queue 666.'
A translucent voice echoed from within the haze of burnt toner:
> "UNAUTHORIZED PRINT REQUEST — I DEMAND OVERTIME PAY!"
Ne Job froze. "…Yue, the printer just spoke."
Yue finally looked up, sighing like a teacher whose favorite student was gravity itself. "So it begins."
She rose from her chair, adjusted her mortal blazer, and retrieved a glowing seal from her pocket — the last vestige of her divine authority. "Spirit entity, identify yourself under Article 3 of the Soul Employment Act."
The printer spat out a single page that floated into her hand. It read, in shaky calligraphy:
> NAME: Former Filing Clerk No. 00472
STATUS: Deceased (Pending Clearance)
COMPLAINT: Denied overtime compensation post-mortem
REASON FOR HAUNTING: "I was never clocked out."
Ne Job squinted. "He's haunting us because he thinks he's still working?"
> "Technically," Yue said, "he's not wrong. Heaven's clocking system was destroyed during the Rebirth Directive. No logout record means indefinite shift."
The printer growled again, papers flying like confetti.
> "I FILED FORM 13-TWICE! YOU CAN'T IGNORE ME FOREVER!"
Yue straightened, tone cool as marble. "Spirit 00472, your claim is under review. Please proceed to the afterlife reception area—"
> "DENIED! I DEMAND A HEARING!"
Ne Job ducked as a paper tray launched itself across the room, lodging into a calendar that burst into flames.
"Yue, he's lawyering up!"
Yue's eyes flickered with faint divine light. "Then we'll hold a hearing."
---
The Makeshift Hearing Room
They cleared a small circle on the floor — one desk, one flickering lightbulb, and three exhausted witnesses: Ne Job (unwilling intern), Yue (acting magistrate), and Bao, the Dreivery Spirit, who had shown up carrying bubble tea and no sense of urgency.
> "Why am I the stenographer?" Bao complained, slurping loudly.
"Because you can type with six hands," Yue said.
"Unpaid labor, this is," Bao muttered.
The printer's ghostly form materialized — a faint outline of a bureaucrat made of smoke and shredded paper. It adjusted an invisible tie.
> "I submit Exhibit A!" it announced. "Proof of logged hours exceeding celestial limit without compensation!"
Papers scattered like snow. Ne Job caught one. The timestamp was from over two centuries ago.
> "You've been working… since the Jade Calendar Reset?"
> "And without a single lunch break!" the spirit shrieked.
Bao leaned over to Yue. "I mean, fair point."
Yue nodded solemnly. "Spirit 00472, by divine protocol, we can authorize symbolic compensation for emotional distress. A prayer coin or equivalent karmic credit."
> "I don't want karma," the ghost hissed. "I want recognition. My service was forgotten."
The air grew colder. Every paper in the room fluttered.
Ne Job frowned. For a moment, the usual humor faded from his face.
> "So that's it. You're haunting us because Heaven moved on."
> "They replaced me with an automation unit!" the ghost wailed. "A machine that never misfiles, never complains, never dreams!"
Something inside Ne Job cracked — maybe empathy, maybe shared frustration. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know the feeling."
Yue's eyes softened. Then, quietly, she rose and placed her glowing seal on the desk.
> "Filing Clerk 00472," she said, voice clear and calm. "By authority of the new Bureau, I hereby reinstate your service for one final task: to file your own release."
The spirit hesitated.
> "My… own?"
> "Your file was never completed," Yue continued. "You stayed behind because no one closed your chapter. Do it now — and we'll recognize your name in the archives."
Silence. The printer's glow dimmed. Slowly, trembling, the ghost picked up a blank sheet.
With trembling spectral hands, it began writing. Line by line, the form filled itself — not with complaints, but with memories. Little things. A checklist of forgotten duties. A note to his old coworkers.
> "There," he whispered. "Filed and finalized."
The printer whirred one last time. The light blinked green.
The spirit smiled faintly. "Clocking out."
And then — he was gone.
Only a single printed line remained on the desk:
> Case File 001: Closed.
---
Aftermath
Ne Job stared at the empty space for a long time.
> "That was… kind of beautiful," he said quietly.
Yue exhaled, almost smiling. "Bureaucracy isn't about control, Ne Job. It's about acknowledgment. Every spirit just wants their existence on record."
Bao looked up from his notes. "So, uh, we get overtime pay for this, right?"
> "No," Yue said.
Bao groaned. "Figures."
The three sat in the dim light, surrounded by drifting paper ash. Then the printer — the same one — rattled again.
Ne Job froze. "Oh no. Not again."
A single paper emerged. This time, the handwriting wasn't from Clerk 00472. It was neater. Cleaner. And at the bottom, it bore the golden seal of the Shard Court.
Yue's eyes widened.
> "What does it say?" Ne Job asked.
She read aloud:
> 'Case File 002 — Incoming Transfer: Audit of Bureau Branch #01, Overseer Assigned.'
A slow chill filled the room.
Ne Job groaned. "We just finished one haunting—now we're getting audited?"
Yue folded the paper carefully. "Not just audited," she said. "Watched."
Outside, the lights of the city flickered — one by one — as something vast and unseen turned its gaze toward the mortal Bureau.
The wind carried the faintest whisper:
> "Clocking in."