Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 84: "Audit Preparation Protocols (a.k.a. Panic)"
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Morning arrived like a poorly stapled report — bright, messy, and already behind schedule.
The "Heavenly Reincarnation Bureau (Earth Branch)" had been open for exactly three days, and it was already falling apart.
The ceiling leaked. The printer smoked. The mortal coffee machine made a sound like a dying spirit.
And in the middle of all that stood Ne Job, holding a mop in one hand and an official audit notice in the other.
> "Yue," he called from the doorway, "define 'routine inspection.' Because I think our definition and the Shard Court's are very, very different."
Yue, kneeling beside a pile of half-burnt forms, didn't look up. Her hair was tied back, sleeves rolled, every movement deliberate. "Routine," she said calmly, "means we won't die if we fail. Probably."
> "Comforting."
He flipped the notice over. The golden Bureau sigil shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
AUDIT TYPE: Integrity Review
INSPECTOR: Unknown
TIME: 3 hours from notice issuance
Ne Job looked around. The mortal office — their proud "branch headquarters" — resembled a divine disaster site. Piles of forms cluttered the desks. Sticky notes with half-legible reminders covered the walls:
"Don't cross-wire the karma server."
"Poltergeist overtime not reimbursable."
"Do NOT let Ne Job touch the transmigration lever."
He sighed. "So… we're dead."
Yue stood, brushing ash from her hands. "No. We clean. We organize. We act professional."
> "Professional? We have a ghost living in the copier!"
As if summoned, the copier lid creaked open and a faint blue head popped out — Mr. Tan, their lingering office poltergeist from last chapter.
> "Uh, I finished duplicating those mortal tax forms you asked for," the ghost said sheepishly. "Also, the copier tried to eat my arm again."
> "You don't have arms, Mr. Tan!" Ne Job snapped.
> "And yet it still hurts," the ghost muttered, vanishing back inside.
Yue pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ne Job, mop the floor. I'll handle the compliance records."
> "Define 'mop.'"
> "Clean until you question your existence."
He grimaced but obeyed, muttering, "Questioning existence is my full-time job."
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Two hours later, the office looked marginally less catastrophic.
Ne Job had managed to shove all the "spirit residue" into one corner and cover it with a "Do Not Disturb — Divine Calibration in Progress" sign.
Yue sat at the main desk, surrounded by glowing holographic seals, typing with mechanical precision.
He glanced at her between mop swipes. "You've been working nonstop since sunrise."
> "That's what preparation means."
> "You realize no amount of forms will make this place look like Heaven."
> "Then we rely on presentation." She adjusted her robe and nodded toward him. "Which means you, Intern, need to wear your uniform."
He blinked. "The one that caught fire last week?"
> "You should've filed for replacement."
> "I did! The printer printed a burning denial!"
> "Then fix it."
He grumbled but complied, digging through the storage cabinet until he found the charred remains of his intern jacket. With a few muttered sparks of Chaos energy, the cloth stitched itself together — unevenly, glowing faintly red around the edges.
> "Perfectly professional," he said, deadpan.
Yue didn't even look up. "It'll have to do."
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Thirty minutes before inspection, everything went quiet. Too quiet.
Yue stood near the front desk, reading the new Bureau Manifest aloud. "We will demonstrate operational stability, mortal compliance, and ethical transmigration procedure."
Ne Job leaned against the counter. "Translation: don't blow anything up."
> "Yes."
> "What if the inspector deserves it?"
> "No."
The bell above the door jingled. Both froze.
A silhouette stepped through — tall, cloaked, the faint shimmer of divine authority radiating from every motion.
Their visitor's voice was calm, almost pleasant.
> "Branch 01, Earth Division?"
Yue straightened immediately. "Yes. Assistant Yue Hanzhen, acting Supervisor. This is Intern Ne Job."
> "Intern," the figure repeated, gaze lingering on him. "The one marked with the Chaos Spark."
Ne Job smiled nervously. "That's… confidential."
> "Nothing is confidential in an audit."
The inspector removed his hood — a middle-aged man with silver hair and ink-black eyes that reflected text instead of light. His very pupils flickered with glowing Bureau scripts.
> "I am Auditor Koi. Former Division of Rebirth Integrity."
Yue bowed politely. "We've prepared full reports of our mortal branch activities and operational standards."
Koi's gaze swept the room — the cracked ceiling, the smoky printer, the faint smell of ozone.
> "You call this operational?"
Ne Job muttered, "Depends on the definition of alive."
> "Intern," Yue hissed under her breath.
Koi ignored the remark and approached the desk. "You are aware, Assistant Yue, that operating a divine facility within the mortal plane requires a binding oath of stability?"
> "Filed and approved," Yue said quickly, producing a sealed scroll.
He unrolled it. The signature shimmered — hers and Ne Job's — but the edges flickered, as if unstable.
Koi raised a brow. "Your oath is tainted by resonance interference."
Ne Job scratched his head. "That's… probably my fault."
> "Explain."
> "You ever try merging chaos code with divine bureaucracy?"
Koi frowned. "That is prohibited."
> "Then consider it innovative."
Yue's hand shot out, clamping over his mouth. "We have adjusted for the anomaly," she said firmly. "The Spark is contained."
> "Contained," Koi repeated, voice cold. "Or cooperating?"
A tense silence fell. Even the ghost copier held its breath.
Yue answered carefully. "Contained for now."
Koi studied her, then him. "You two are anomalies — one bound by duty, one by defiance. The Bureau once destroyed both."
> "Yeah," Ne Job said. "Didn't work out."
Koi almost smiled. "Indeed. And yet you rebuilt what we erased."
He closed the scroll, his tone softening. "Heaven fears chaos. But fear breeds inefficiency. Perhaps your… branch has merit."
Yue blinked. "You're approving us?"
> "Temporarily." He turned to leave. "Consider this a probationary acknowledgment. Continue operations. Report quarterly."
Ne Job exhaled. "That's it? No divine smiting?"
> "I prefer observation to obliteration," Koi said, pausing at the door. "After all, even the gods could use an intern's paperwork once in a while."
The bell chimed as he vanished.
---
For a long moment, the office was silent again.
Yue slumped slightly, shoulders loosening for the first time all day.
Ne Job looked at her and grinned. "You realize we just passed our first audit."
> "Barely."
> "Still counts."
She met his gaze, and for a moment — just a heartbeat — she smiled. A real one.
Then the printer beeped, printing a new ticket in glowing red ink:
"CASE FILE 002: Anomaly Detected — Temporal Backlog at Local Cemetery."
Ne Job sighed. "We just passed inspection, and we already have another case?"
Yue straightened. "Work doesn't stop, Intern."
> "You say that like it's supposed to be encouraging."
> "It is."
She handed him the file. "We start in the morning."
He groaned but took it. "Great. Another day in paradise."
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Outside, the mortal sun sank low, casting the little Bureau in gold. Inside, among the dust and divine debris, the world's strangest office hummed back to life — an intern, an assistant, and a printer that still occasionally screamed.
Somewhere, far above, the heavens were watching. And for once… they didn't know what to file next.