The mortal realm was supposed to be peaceful.
That was the theory.
Reality, however, was currently screaming.
Ne Job clung to a flickering escalator rail as the entire Silverlight Department Store convulsed around him — aisles twisting into infinite loops, mannequins twitching like they were remembering how to breathe, and sale banners whispering "everything must go" in a voice far too sentient for retail.
Yue stood at the center of the chaos, hair unruffled, tablet in hand, recording calmly.
"Incident classification: retail haunting, Class B. Cause of disturbance: unresolved managerial trauma."
Ne Job blinked. "Managerial trauma?"
Yue pointed toward the far end of the store — specifically, to the faintly glowing spirit of a woman in a suit holding a clipboard.
She hovered over the perfume counter, muttering in a loop:
> "Inventory discrepancy... someone's stealing air fresheners again…"
Ne Job frowned. "So that's the ghost?"
Yue nodded. "Former branch manager. Died on duty during an overnight audit in 1984. Refused to leave until every form was balanced. Unfortunately, the mortal economy collapsed before she could finish."
He winced. "Talk about a hostile work environment."
The ghost's eyes snapped open — twin beams of flickering scanner light.
> "Who approved that joke?!"
Every cash register in the building came to life, spewing receipts like angry locusts. Shelves warped into spirals of paper, aisles rearranging into mazes of discontinued brands.
Ne Job ducked a flying price tag. "Okay, so she's territorial."
Yue remained calm, tapping furiously. "We can't exorcise her directly. She's bound to the store's business license, which is technically still valid in the mortal system."
"You're telling me this building still has a license?"
"It was renewed automatically. Every century."
Ne Job gawked. "By who?"
A beat. Then, from the overhead speakers, a cheerful jingle began to play:
🎵 "Welcome to Silverlight! Lowest prices beyond the grave!" 🎵
He groaned. "You have got to be kidding me."
The air shimmered — and from behind a wall of sale posters, the Ghost Manager emerged fully. She was translucent, glowing faintly blue, and her clipboard emitted divine light like an executioner's blade.
> "You two! Where's your employee badge?"
Ne Job tried diplomacy. "Technically we're from Upper Management. Afterlife Division."
Her voice dropped an octave. "Auditors?!"
Yue immediately raised her hands. "We're here to help reconcile the pending inventory."
The ghost froze mid-lunge. "...You're here to help with the audit?"
Ne Job blinked. "Y-Yes! That's exactly what my boss said!"
The lights steadied. The temperature rose a few degrees. The ghost's posture softened. "Finally. Someone competent."
Yue shot him a warning look. "Play along."
For the next thirty minutes, Ne Job found himself in the strangest mission of his afterlife:
helping a literal ghost inventory forgotten 1980s merchandise — from cursed fax machines to eternal polyester blouses.
Every time he miscounted, the floor trembled.
Every time Yue corrected him, the ghost sighed in relief.
At last, Yue held up her tablet. "All reconciled. You can rest now."
The ghost smiled faintly, translucent fingers brushing the clipboard. "Rest… I remember that word."
She glanced around the empty aisles, voice softening. "I spent decades waiting for someone to notice my forms. You'd be surprised how loud silence gets when no one checks your reports."
Ne Job felt something twist in his chest. "You weren't forgotten. Just… misfiled."
Her eyes shimmered. "Then maybe I can clock out now."
She bowed once — formal, graceful — and dissolved into a flurry of golden receipts that drifted gently into the air. The lights flickered, the escalators sighed, and for the first time in decades, Silverlight Department Store fell quiet.
Yue tapped her pen once, logging the case. "Case 002-A resolved. Client released. No collateral anomalies."
Ne Job grinned. "So we did it? No explosions, no divine paperwork tornadoes?"
"Not yet."
He frowned. "Wait, what do you—"
A faint chime rang out from the counter.
A single receipt fluttered toward them, glowing faintly.
Printed on it was a message:
> 'NOTICE: Store successfully closed. Manager promoted to Afterlife Logistics.
Please report to Division 4 for debriefing: "The Factory of Forgotten Goods."'
Ne Job groaned. "They're sending us to a factory next?"
Yue closed her tablet with a sigh. "At least it's not HR."
He paused. "...You think HR has ghosts?"
Yue's smile was terrifyingly calm. "I know they do."
---
They stepped through the fading shimmer of Silverlight's entrance, leaving behind the quiet shelves and the faint echo of the jingle looping one last time.
🎵 "Thank you for shopping with us… come again… come again… come again…" 🎵
The door closed. The sound faded. And the Bureau's two most chaotic employees disappeared back into the in-between — heading straight for their next impossible case.