The Honda Civic ran the red light doing forty-seven.
Marcus caught the motion in his peripheral vision—silver blur cutting through the intersection where Emma stood texting, earbuds in, completely absorbed in whatever drama her seventh-grade friends were manufacturing today.
Two seconds. Maybe less.
His body moved before his brain finished calculating trajectory. He launched himself sideways, shoulder connecting with Emma's ribs as two tons of metal and momentum claimed the space where she'd been standing.
The impact folded him in half. Ribs snapped like kindling.
His head bounced off asphalt, vision fracturing into kaleidoscope fragments of streetlights and screaming tires.
Blood filled his mouth. Metallic. Warm.
𝘌𝘮𝘮𝘢'𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦.
The thought came clear through the static of dying neurons. He'd felt her body fly clear, heard her hit the sidewalk fifteen feet away.
Alive. Breathing. Cursing in that creative way she'd picked up from kids at school.
His lungs wouldn't work anymore. Each attempt to breathe sent glass through his chest.
𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦.
The lie tasted worse than blood. Emma had been his responsibility since their parents died three years ago.
MIT graduation was supposed to be their fresh start—his computer science degree finally earning enough to get them out of their cramped Boston apartment, maybe even save for her college.
Now she'd go into foster care. Some stranger would try to understand her sarcasm and midnight anxiety attacks and the way she hoarded snacks in her backpack.
Darkness crept in from the edges. Sound faded to a distant hum.
𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘌𝘮.
---
Marcus woke up standing.
The transition felt wrong—no gradual awakening, no disorientation period. One moment crushing weight and failing organs, the next complete alertness in a place that hurt to look at.
White. Everything white.
Floors, walls, ceiling—all seamless surfaces that reflected light without shadows. The air smelled like nothing, tasted like nothing, felt like precisely seventy-two degrees against his skin.
Fluorescent brightness came from everywhere and nowhere, casting no shadows despite the massive space stretching beyond visual comprehension.
He looked down at his hands. Solid. Real.
No blood, no road rash, no bent fingers from where the car had—
"Next."
The voice came from his left. Marcus turned and found himself in a line.
A very long line.
Thousands of people stretched ahead and behind him, all standing quietly in a queue that extended beyond the horizon.
They looked normal—business suits, casual clothes, hospital gowns, even a few in pajamas. Every age, every ethnicity, every social class represented.
The only common thread was the same confused expression he probably wore.
"Next."
The line moved forward one space.
Marcus craned his neck, trying to see the front. Processing stations stretched across the distance like airport check-in counters, each staffed by figures in white.
The people ahead of him shuffled forward with mechanical patience, reaching the stations one by one before disappearing through doors behind the counters.
He was dead. Had to be.
The Honda Civic, the impact, Emma's scream—it all felt real, but this place existed outside normal reality.
"Excuse me," he said to the woman ahead of him. "Do you know what this is?"
She turned. Mid-forties, wearing scrubs like she'd died at work.
"Processing center, I think. Been in line for..." She frowned. "Hard to tell time here. Feels like hours, but I'm not hungry or tired."
"How did you—" Marcus started.
"Heart attack during surgery. Stress, probably. Sixty-hour weeks for fifteen years." She shrugged. "You?"
"Car accident. Saving my sister."
Something shifted in her expression. Respect, maybe. "That's something, at least."
The line moved again.
Marcus studied the processing stations ahead. Each had a tall figure in white—not quite human, he realized.
Too perfect, too symmetrical. Their movements held mechanical precision that suggested either extensive training or non-human nature.
Angels. The word surfaced from childhood Sunday school memories.
Though these looked more like customer service representatives than biblical messengers.
"Next."
Closer now. He could make out conversations at the nearest stations, though the words felt muffled by distance and impossible acoustics.
"—natural reincarnation provides complete peace—"
"—alternative option requires careful consideration—"
"—your choice will be permanent—"
Choice. Marcus filed that away as important.
Twenty people ahead of him now. The processing moved with relentless efficiency—each person spending maybe five minutes at their station before walking through doors that appeared behind the counters.
Some people looked relieved. Others appeared troubled, even frightened.
"Next."
Fifteen people.
"Next."
Ten.
The woman in scrubs reached her station. Marcus watched her conversation with the white-clad figure, noting the way her expression changed from confusion to understanding to something that might have been hope.
She nodded firmly, walked through a door that materialized, and vanished.
"Next."
His turn.
The figure behind the counter definitely wasn't human. Tall, ethereally beautiful, with silver hair and golden eyes that displayed scrolling data like computer screens.
Six wings folded against her back like a business jacket. She wore the expression of someone who'd processed thousands of cases and maintained professional compassion despite the volume.
"Marcus Chen," she said, voice carrying gentle authority. "Age twenty-four. Cause of death: vehicular impact while saving another."
Her golden eyes met his. "You have a choice to make."