I hate hospitals. The smell gets to me every time.
Standing outside room 314 at New York Presbyterian, I checked my watch again. 11:47 PM. Harold Morrison had thirteen minutes left, and I had a job to do.
My fingers drummed against this stupid clipboard I didn't even need. Made me look normal though—just another nurse working the night shift. The scrubs cost more than most people's rent, but whatever. Image matters in this business.
Been doing this for three hundred years. You'd think I'd be used to it by now.
I pushed open Harold's door. The old man was awake, propped up against white pillows. His breathing sounded like shit. Lung cancer, stage four. Family already said goodbye. Now it was just him, some beeping machines, and me.
"Hey there, sweetheart." His voice was barely a whisper. "You're new."
I walked over to his bed. "Just started this week. How you feeling, Mr. Morrison?"
"Like I'm dying." He tried to smile. "But I guess you already know that."
Ha. If only.
I grabbed the plastic chair and sat down. "Tell me about your family."
This part was routine. Get them talking, make contact, do the thing. Harold seemed determined to stay awake though. That was fine. I'd done this dance before.
"Got two daughters out in California. Sarah's a teacher, and Lisa just had her first baby. Little girl named Emma."
"That's nice." And I meant it. Harold seemed like a good guy. Made this part easier.
My watch said 11:52. Eight minutes.
"Mr. Morrison, I'm gonna take your pulse now, okay?" I reached for his wrist. Could feel his heartbeat under the skin—weak, but still there.
He nodded, eyes getting heavy. "That's fine, dear."
I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and closed my eyes. Time to work.
The process always started the same way. Warm tingling in my fingertips, spreading up my arms. Harold's soul was right there—bright and fading, ready to go.
I took a breath and began to pull.
Then everything went wrong.
Sharp pain shot through my chest. Right where my heart used to be. The sensation was so... God, I don't even know. Foreign? Terrifying? I jerked my hand back like he'd burned me.
"You okay, honey?" Harold asked, suddenly more alert.
I stared at him. Three hundred years. Perfect record. And I'd never—not once—felt anything during collection. We weren't supposed to feel. That was the whole point.
"I'm fine," I said, but my voice sounded weird. "Let me just... try again."
I reached for his wrist a second time. The moment my skin touched his, that pain flared up again. But this time something else happened.
Something impossible.
My heart started beating.
I yanked my hand back so fast I knocked over his water cup. Ice scattered across the floor.
"What's wrong?" Harold tried to sit up. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I wished it was that simple.
My watch read 11:58. Two minutes past Harold's departure time. Shit. This was bad.
"I'll be right back," I said, already backing toward the door. "Just need to... check something."
In the hallway, I pressed my back against his door. My hands were shaking. Actually shaking. I pulled out my phone and opened the Soul Collection app.
Harold Morrison's status: "In Progress." The timer had gone red. Overdue collection.
I'd never seen red on my assignments. Not once.
I closed my eyes and tried to center myself. Maybe I was sick? Did death gods even get sick?
"Excuse me, miss?"
I spun around. A doctor stood in Harold's doorway—tall, brown eyes, messy black hair. His name tag read "Dr. A. Chen, Cardiology."
"Is everything alright?" he asked. "Mr. Morrison said his nurse seemed upset."
"I'm fine." Quick answer. Too quick.
Dr. Chen studied my face. I had the weird feeling he could see right through me. "You sure? You look pale."
That was rich.
"Really, I'm okay. Just tired."
He nodded but didn't look convinced. "Well, Mr. Morrison is asking for you. He seems more alert than he's been all day. His vitals have actually stabilized."
My blood ran cold. "Stabilized?"
"Yeah, it's strange. Heart rate's stronger, breathing's improved. Sometimes patients rally right before..." He stopped himself.
"Right before they die."
"Exactly. But this feels different. Like he's actually getting better."
I stared at Dr. Chen. Harold should have been dead two minutes ago. His soul should have been processed and filed. Instead, he was getting better.
Because I couldn't do my job.
"I should get back to him," I said, pushing past the doctor.
Harold was sitting up in bed, looking better than any dying man had a right to. The monitors beeped steadily—vital signs definitely stronger than twenty minutes ago.
"There you are," he said with a smile. "I was telling the doctor how nice you've been. What's your name, sweetheart?"
I opened my mouth to give him the fake name on my badge. But something made me pause. The way he was looking at me—like he could see something I couldn't.
"Raven," I said. "My name is Raven."
"That's beautiful. Like the bird."
"Like the bird."
Dr. Chen was frowning at Harold's chart. "Mr. Morrison, how are you feeling right now? Any pain?"
"Better than I have in weeks. Feel like I could get up and walk around."
"That's..." Dr. Chen looked at me. "Has he been like this since you've been with him?"
I shook my head. This was supposed to be simple. Go in, collect the soul, file paperwork, go home. Instead I was watching a dying man come back to life while some doctor asked questions I couldn't answer.
My phone buzzed. Text from the office: "Morrison collection overdue. Director requesting status update."
Fuck.
"I need to make a phone call," I said, heading for the door. "I'll check on you soon, Mr. Morrison."
"Thank you, Raven. For everything."
I almost ran down the corridor. My heart—my apparently working heart—was pounding.
In the stairwell, I called the office.
"Eternal Solutions, night desk."
"This is Raven Blackthorne. I need Director Void. Now."
"He's in a meeting—"
"Tell him I have a Code Yellow. He'll know."
"Hold please."
I leaned against the wall. Three hundred years of perfect performance. I was the youngest CEO in company history because I was so damn good at this job.
So why couldn't I touch Harold Morrison without feeling like my chest was exploding?
"Raven." Director Void's voice, smooth and cold. "I understand we have a problem."
"Sir, I—"
"Not over the phone. My office. One hour."
Line went dead.
I stared at my phone. My hands were still shaking.
Something was wrong with me. And in our line of work, being wrong could get you killed.
I started back up to Harold's floor. Equipment malfunction? Spiritual interference? Or maybe after three hundred years, I was finally breaking down.
When I reached the fourth floor, I could hear voices from room 314. Dr. Chen was still there, talking to someone else.
"His numbers are all improving," Dr. Chen was saying. "Heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels. It's like someone hit reset."
"That's impossible," another voice replied. Female, older. "Stage four lung cancer doesn't just reverse itself."
"I know. But look at these readings."
I pressed against the wall outside Harold's room. My heart did that weird beating thing again. Whatever was happening to me, it was affecting my targets too.
That thought made my stomach drop.
If I couldn't collect souls anymore, what was I supposed to do? What was the point of immortal life if I couldn't do the one thing I was made for?
My phone buzzed again: "Director Void has moved up your meeting. Report immediately."
I looked back toward Harold's room, where the man who should be dead was probably asking for more ice chips. Then toward the exit, where my boss was waiting for an explanation I didn't have.
This was about to get so much worse.
But walking toward the elevator, one question kept hitting me:
If touching Harold Morrison made my heart beat, what would happen when I touched someone who was supposed to live?