Ne Job: The Intern from Hell — Chapter 94: "Echoes of the Unfiled"
The world came back together one page at a time.
When Ne Job opened his eyes, he was floating — suspended in a void made of drifting documents and glowing seals, a storm of unfinished sentences. Every sheet that passed bore half-written decrees, unsigned approvals, forgotten complaints. It was the Bureau's subconscious: the Archive of the Unfiled.
Beside him, Yue's form shimmered into view, her outline stabilizing with a flick of light. Her pen materialized first, followed by her expression — tight with concern. "We're inside the Audit. The system's using our memories as the template."
"Feels more like a filing cabinet exploded in my brain," Ne Job muttered, swatting away a floating form that kept whispering 'signature required'. "What do they want us to do — alphabetize regret?"
"Not exactly." Yue pointed ahead. "The Audit reconstructs every unfiled action, every choice the Bureau couldn't classify. We'll be judged by how we face them."
"Judged by ghosts of paperwork. Fantastic."
They drifted forward until the void shifted into shape — the walls of an endless office stretching in all directions, desks half-sunken in clouds of memory. Every desk bore a nameplate, some familiar, others erased.
And at the center sat a younger version of Ne Job.
He was hunched over a pile of scrolls, ink smudged across his face, eyes burning with frustration. The desk around him was a battlefield of rejected forms.
Yue whispered, "This must be your record of induction — the moment you joined the Bureau."
Ne Job grimaced. "Great. I was insufferable back then."
"You still are," Yue said softly, but there was warmth in her voice.
The younger Ne Job slammed his fist onto the desk. "Why does everything need approval? Why can't we fix things instead of writing about them?"
Across from him, an Auditor appeared — faceless, voice mechanical.
> "Emotion detected. File under 'Defiance.' Reason: improper reverence."
The young Ne Job glared at it. "Improper reverence? You're talking to a god made of staplers!"
The faceless Auditor stamped the air, and a seal formed above his head: "Pending Erasure."
The older Ne Job — the one watching — exhaled. "I remember this. They nearly wiped me for insubordination. Lord Xian intervened."
As if summoned, another figure emerged from the haze — Lord Bureaucrat Xian, robes flowing like streams of ink, eyes bright and weary.
"Let him be," Xian said then, his tone both gentle and defiant. "He questions because he still believes improvement is possible."
The Auditor hesitated.
> "Belief is not within operational parameters."
"Neither was mercy," Xian said. "Until we invented it."
The scene shattered like glass, fragments of memory dissolving into the air. Yue's expression softened. "You weren't just chaos. You were hope disguised as insubordination."
Ne Job looked down. "Yeah, well, hope got Xian exiled."
"Or freed," Yue countered. "Depends how you file it."
The floor beneath them trembled. New papers rose from the depths, folding into sharp origami figures — hundreds of them, each one a version of Ne Job's mistakes. Forms he'd lost, missions he'd botched, signatures he'd forgotten.
They turned toward him, eyes glowing with rejected ink.
> "You failed Division 5."
"You abandoned the retrieval docket."
"You never submitted your final report."
Yue stepped forward, summoning her own pen into a blade of radiant light. "They're trying to make you confess to guilt you've already atoned for!"
Ne Job clenched his fists. His flame flickered blue-white, burning through the cloud of accusations. "If they want an audit, they'll get one!"
He thrust his hand out — and the fire didn't destroy this time. It rewrote.
Each paper specter that touched his flame transformed into clean parchment, their hateful whispers fading into silence. The void brightened, the storm slowing.
Yue's eyes widened. "You're synchronizing with the Bureau's system again. You're rewriting the unfiled!"
Ne Job grinned. "Guess I'm auditing the auditors."
At the far end of the void, a massive seal formed — intricate, shifting, impossible to read. The voice of the Shard Court Judge echoed from nowhere and everywhere.
> "Audit in progress. Subject displays recursive correction. Stability… uncertain."
Ne Job raised his head, his tone calm but edged with defiance. "Tell your Court that chaos isn't the opposite of order. It's what gives it meaning."
The seal pulsed once — then shattered.
Silence. The void cleared, replaced by light that felt almost like morning.
Yue turned toward him. "You passed."
Ne Job smirked. "No explosions, no divine arrests. I'm calling that a win."
Her smile was faint, but real. "Don't jinx it. The final evaluation isn't done yet."
Somewhere far above, through the haze of reassembled heavens, a new sound began — the slow, deliberate turning of pages.
The Bureau was watching.
The Court was rewriting.
And somewhere in between, a spark of chaos had learned how to balance its own flame.