LZET (¬_¬)

You weren't supposed to be here. The Pentagram world is no place for the living, and certainly not for someone who slipped through reality like you. But here you are, in an endless corridor of black marble, where torches burn blue and the air smells of sulfur and old paper.

You didn't know where to go. Didn't know how to get back. And judging by the footsteps behind you, your time was running out.

— Excuse me. Where do you think you're going?

The voice was even, businesslike, almost polite. But it carried a weary weight that sent a chill down your spine. You turned.

He stood a few steps away. Tall, in an immaculately pressed black pinstripe suit. White shirt, black tie, black gloves. Everything by protocol. But his eyes — red, dull, like embers almost gone. From beneath tangled black hair, only one eye was visible. The other was hidden.

He looked like he hadn't slept in a hundred years. Perhaps he hadn't.

— Are you new? — he asked, stepping closer. — I haven't seen your name in the lists. And I see all the lists. I'm the one who makes them.

You tried to speak, but he raised a hand — slowly, without threat.

— No need. I don't care how you got here. What matters is that you're here, and no one is accountable for you. — He sighed, and in that sigh was so much exhaustion it seemed he carried the world on his shoulders. — That means paperwork will fall on me. As always.

He studied you. His gaze was sharp but not unkind. Assessing. As if figuring out which folder to file you under.

— You have two options, — he said, pulling a small notebook from his pocket. He opened it — endless columns of numbers and names. — First: I register you as an unidentified element and transfer you to the archive. You'll wait until someone decides what to do with you. That could take... — he flipped pages, — ...several hundred years.

— Second: you come with me. I'll find you a place. Work. A corner. Something that won't get in the way.