There was a silence.
It was a special kind of silence, the kind that rushes in to fill the space left by a paradigm-shattering revelation. It was the sound of Kieran's brain trying to simultaneously defragment, reboot, and prevent a critical system failure, all while smelling faintly of breakfast stew.
He stared at the spot where the gold coin had evaporated. He stared at the condemned manor. He stared at the smugly glowing lantern.
"Haha," Kieran said. It was a strained, painful sound, like a rusty gate hinge. "Good one, Milo. Very funny. You got me. I'm the new guy, so you haze me. 'The passenger was a ghost!' Very classic. You'll have to try harder than that, tho. I've worked in a call center. My-my old boss, Greg, he once convinced me the entire building was on fire for, like, twenty minutes. That was a prank. So this is... this is B-tier, man."
The flame in Milo's lantern pulsed. "Let's review, shall we? Your first passenger was an old woman who walked through her front door, accompanied by a cat you yourself described as 'see-through.' Your second passenger was a man you picked up from a mausoleum—"
"People visit mausoleums!" Kieran protested, his voice cracking. "It's a hobby! Grave-rubbing! Or... historical architecture! It's a thing, you know!"
"—who was wearing clothes that went out of style before bifocals were invented," Milo continued relentlessly. "He then phased through his boarded-up door. And both of them—both—paid you in currency that dematerialized upon receipt. And, ugh, I'm talking lantern, you idiot! What, precisely, is your working theory for this, you pillar of profound denial?"
Kieran's hands were gripping the reins so hard his knuckles were white. "It's... it's an ARG. An Alternate Reality Game. Super super super high-tech. You're... you're a very advanced AI. Lirien is an actress. The phasing is pepper's ghost. Holograms or something like that. The cat was a a drone? A very hazy drone."
"Holograms," Milo repeated, his voice dripping with derision. "Drones. Yes, of course. This town, Asterveil, which runs on spectral horses and stew, has mastered quantum-state projection for the sole purpose of... what? Confusing a failed taxi vlogger?"
"Hey!" Kieran snapped. "I had seventeen subscribers! And how did you know about—"
"We are bonded to your aura," Milo said, as if explaining it to a toddler. "I know you're afraid of dentists, you think 'charcuterie' is pronounced with a 'sh,' and your greatest regret in your past life was not unsubscribing from that "Meat of the Month" club."
Kieran's blood ran cold. Colder than the vanishing coins. "Past... life?"
"Oh, sweet light," Milo sighed. "He's still buffering. Yes. Your past life. The one that ended abruptly with the decentralized front end of a delivery truck. The one you died in. You're not in a coma, Kieran. You're not having a fever dream. You're in Asterveil. It's a... let's call it a transitional nexus. And you, my friend, are its newest, and arguably stupidest, public transit employee."
The silence returned, heavier this time. Kieran let go of the reins. The spectral horses didn't move.
He wasn't in a coma. He was dead.
He had died. In his car. Worried about his acceptance rate.
This... this was the afterlife. This was his reward, or punishment. A job. A slightly better, more magical version of the exact same job.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no. I reject this. I didn't... I didn't agree to this."
"You did," Milo chirped. "You signed the Ethereal Employment Contract."
"The what?"
"The contract. With Lirien. The one you signed because you were hungry."
Kieran's panic, which had been simmering at a low, existential level, suddenly flash-boiled. It bypassed 'anxiety' and went straight to full-blown spiritual crisis.
"I'm going to go talk to HR," he said, his voice dangerously calm.
"Oh, good. That'll help."
Kieran didn't run. He power-walked. He abandoned the Silverwheel in the middle of the gloomy street — not that there was any traffic — and stalked back toward the Guild, his mind racing.
Ghosts. I've been driving ghosts. I, Kieran 'World's Ogkayest Driver' Miller, am an inter-dimensional ghost chauffeur. I'm a... a... a 'Boo-ber' driver.
He burst through the oak door of the Guild. The filing cabinets were still spitting parchment. The quill was still scribbling. Lirien was still at her desk, now examining what appeared to be a small, captured storm cloud in a jar.
She looked up, her expression unchanged. "Driver Miller. You're back early. Did you get lost? Your manifest clearly states—"
"I quit," Kieran announced.
Lirien blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I. Quit. Q-U-I-T. I'm done. I am not qualified for this position. You failed to disclose key information about the... nature of the clientele."
"Clientele?" Lirien set the jar down. The cloud inside it flashed with angry, tiny lightning.
"The ghosts, Lirien!" Kieran yelled, finally losing his composure. He was full-on gesticulating now. "The dead people! The spooks, the specters, the 'lingering' cats! You hired me to drive ghosts!"
Lirien's expression was one of mild confusion, as if he'd just complained about the color of the stew.
"Driver Miller," she said slowly. "What did you think this job was? You were hired by the Asterveil Coaching Guild. We are the primary transport for souls in the Aster-Veil. 'Aster,' as in, 'astral.' 'Veil,' as in, 'the thin partition between the living and the dead.' It's in the name."
"It sounds like a bed-and-breakfast!" Kieran sputtered. "It sounds quaint! It doesn't sound like 'you will be making small talk with the 200-year-old victims of typhoid'!"
"But you're so good at it," Lirien said, tilting her head. "Sir Reginald gave you five stars. 'A splendid ride,' he wrote. 'Driver was not at all phased by my spectral nature, though his aura did spike with... let's see... 'profound existential terror' at the end. Very professional.' Madam Elara also gave you five stars. 'Lovely young man. Reminded me of my grandson, before the incident with the Weeping Halls.'"
"I don't care about my ratings!" Kieran was practically vibrating. "I'm not doing it. I'm... I'm going back. How do I go back? Or, forward? To the actual afterlife? The one with clouds, or harps, or, I don't know, endless buffets? I'm not supposed to be working."
"This is the afterlife, Driver Miller. Or at least, a significant district of it. And you have a job. You signed the contract."
"Then I'm un-signing it!" He slammed his palm on her desk. The quill pen jumped, spattering ink. "I was... I was under duress! I wasn't of sound mind! I was concussed! Or, post-death-confused! And you bribed me with stew!"
Lirien sighed. It was the first real emotion he'd seen from her: mild, bureaucratic exasperation. She reached into a drawer and pulled out the parchment he had signed yesterday.
"As I told you," she said, tapping a specific, swirling line of text, "it is an Ethereal Employment Contract."
"So?"
"So, it is bound to your aura. Your signature, which you provided willingly, attuned the Silverwheel to your, what did you call it?, Big Dick Energy."
"It was strong wheel energy!"
"Yes, that. The carriage is now bonded to you. The spectral horses respond only to your intent. Milo is, reluctantly, synced to your consciousness. You can't quit," Lirien said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "It's a spiritual compact. You're the official Coachman of the Veil. At least, for this sector."
Kieran stared at the contract. The flowing script seemed to mock him.
"You... you tricked me."
"I hired you," Lirien corrected. "You're the first person in thirty years who has had both a valid 'past life' commercial driving aura and the right kind of receptive energy. The spirits like you, Kieran. You're uncluttered."
"Uncluttered? I'm a mess! I'm... I'm..." He deflated, the panic giving way to a vast, hollow despair. "I'm just a guy. I just... I just drove people around. I listened to their problems. I tried to find the fastest route. I'm not an exorcist. I'm not a medium."
"Exactly," Lirien said, a faint smile touching her lips. "You're just a driver. And that's all they want. A good listener. Someone who treats them like, well, people."
She pushed the parchment back into the drawer. "Your next fare is in twenty minutes. A banshee. She's heading to the Glimmering Fens. She's quite a screamer. I'd advise taking the canal route. It has fewer bumps."
Kieran just stood there. He was trapped. He had died, crossed over into a fantasy world, and had been immediately locked into a supernatural, customer-service-based, with non-negotiable contract.
It wasn't damnation. It was a lateral career move.
"I need a drink," he muttered.
"The tavern, 'The Parting Glass,' is two doors down. They have an excellent stout," Lirien said, already turning back to her storm-jar. "Don't be late for the banshee. She gives terrible reviews if she's kept waiting."
Kieran walked out of the Guild. He didn't just walk. He slumped. He was a man defeated by cosmic HR.
He found 'The Parting Glass' easily. It was a cozy, dark-wood-and-smoke kind of place. A massive, seven-foot-tall orc with a pristine white apron was polishing a tankard. Kieran didn't even care. At this point, a dragon could be serving him shots and he wouldn't blink.
He slumped onto a stool. "Gimme... gimme the strongest thing you have that isn't blue."
The orc-bartender — Grog, according to his name-tag — grunted and poured a dark, thick liquid into a mug. "Rough first day?" Grog's voice was a deep rumble.
"You have no idea," Kieran said, taking a huge gulp. It tasted like coffee, and bread, and a faint hint of regret. It was delicious.
He pulled out his invisible spoon-microphone.
"Okay, Chat," he whispered, hunching over his drink. "So. We have a situation. A significant update… to the channel. And... the lore. The lore is very, very deep."
He took another drink. "It turns out I'm dead, Chat. Yeah. Big reveal! The crash, that was it. That was the series finale. And this is the spin-off. Or the the post-credits scene? And I'm, you know, I'm the ghost driver now."
Grog the orc raised a bushy green eyebrow but kept polishing.
"No, I'm not the ghost," Kieran corrected himself, his voice getting a little louder. "I don't know what I am. An 'isekai,' I guess. But my passengers, they're the ghosts. I'm the ferryman. I'm Charon. But I don't get the cool boat. I get a maglev carriage and a sarcastic lantern. And my boss is a half-elf who definitely might be dead, too. I'm getting big 'HR is also a ghost' vibes from her."
He was starting to spiral. The alcohol, or whatever it was, was hitting him fast. The reality of it was crashing down.
He wasn't just driving. He was processing people. He was taking Madam Elara to her old home. He was taking Sir Reginald to check on his dusty furniture. He was... he was...
"They think I'm some kind of... helper," he said, his voice rising in panic. "That lady, Madam Elara, she was waiting for someone. What if I was supposed to help her? What if I was supposed to, um, 'exorcise' her? Or 'help her cross over'?"
He slammed his mug on the bar. The few other patrons — a gnome playing chess with himself, and a cloaked figure in the corner — looked up.
"I'm not qualified for this!" Kieran yelled, half-drunk and fully terrified. "I give driving directions! I know how to avoid rush-hour traffic on the 405! I can give relationship advice to drunk finance bros and college kids! But I am not a ghost therapist!"
The tavern went silent.
Grog stopped polishing. The gnome paused his chess game.
Then, from a table in the corner, a thin, pale hand was raised.
Kieran squinted. It was the cloaked figure. He hadn't noticed them before, but now he could see, they were, like the cat, a little hazy. Translucent. He could see the wood grain of the chair through their robes.
"A-hem," the figure said. The voice was thin, reedy, and had a slight echo. "Begging your pardon, good sir... but, can you be?"
Kieran just stared.
The ghost leaned forward, his form wavering. He looked like a medieval knight, or at least, he was wearing a full-metal helmet, from which an arrow was still protruding at a jaunty angle.
"It's just," the ghost-knight continued, wringing his gauntleted, semi-transparent hands, "I have this rather pressing matter. You see, my widow, bless her heart, she's about to marry that swine Sir Barnaby. And I know he's just after my haunted suit of armor. It's in the attic. But I can't seem to, you know, warn her. I just, I just make the curtains flutter. And she thinks it's a draft! Could you perhaps give me some advice on communication? I'll tip! I have, uh, I have several very cold coins!"
Kieran looked at the ghost. He looked at Grog, who had gone back to polishing, completely unfazed. He looked at his empty mug.
He couldn't escape it. He was barely an hour into his new, eternal career, and he already had a walk-in.
Kieran let out a long, slow breath. The panic was still there, but it was being... compartmentalized. The old muscle-memory of his job was kicking in.
He was a driver. This was a passenger. A passenger with a problem.
"Okay," Kieran said, rubbing his temples. "Okay. Look... Sir Knight... guy. First off, haunting your own attic is, that's bad form. You're never going to get a good crossing-over rating like that. Secondly, Sir Barnaby. What's his deal? Is he actually evil, or are you just, you know, a jealous ghost?"
The knight gasped. "I am not jealous! I am reasonably concerned! He doesn't even like jousting!"
Kieran sighed. He turned to Grog. "Another one of these. And, do you have any peanuts? Or enchanted pretzels? I feel like this is going to be a long consultation."
Grog grunted, amused, and refilled the mug.
Kieran turned back to the ghost. "Alright. Pull up a chair. Let's talk about Sir Barnaby. But just so you know, my rates are complicated. And my next passenger is a banshee. So let's make this quick."