My phone buzzed again.
I was still staring out the window when it happened—watching that mailman with my face and that horrible upside-down smile as he disappeared around the corner, casual as could be, like he wasn't a walking nightmare.
DROP #005 arriving shortly.
That message glowed on my screen.
No sender. No number.
Just the DropDead Express logo pulsing faintly.
I sat down hard, the room tilting like it wanted to fold me back into the nightmare I'd just barely escaped.
My reflection in the mirror didn't move this time.
Good.
I wasn't ready to punch my own face.
The vial on my table was still half full. The satchel with the Laughless Key hummed softly, like it was... content.
That made one of us.
I told myself I'd quit. Right here, right now. I'd delete the app, burn the uniform, throw my phone into the nearest sewer and never look back.
But I didn't.
Instead, I kept staring at the phone, like a man waiting for a bad idea to finish baking.
And then it happened.
A new message:
Ray Alvarez.
Mandatory debrief.
Report to HQ: NOW.
Mandatory.
Yeah, that tracks.
The app opened itself, and my GPS blinked to life, chirping like nothing was wrong.
Destination: DropDead Express HQ.
ETA: 13 minutes.
By the time I got outside, my moped was already waiting, engine idling with a low, almost eager growl.
I climbed on, my head spinning, and the moment I touched the handlebars, it took off—fast.
The city blurred past, streets and alleys stretching and compressing in ways that hurt if I looked too closely.
Billboards whispered things.
A crow perched on a stoplight screamed my name in a voice like a broken record.
Standard commute, really.
Then the road... ended.
No warning.
One second, asphalt. The next—fog. Thick, dense, alive.
I slowed, but the moped didn't care. It rolled right in.
And there it was:
DropDead Express HQ.
It looked like every office building I'd ever dreaded—glass and steel and a soul-crushing sense of endless paperwork—but this one... breathed. The windows twitched like nervous eyes. The walls bulged slightly, as if the building was exhaling.
At the door stood a receptionist.
Well—something wearing a receptionist's shape.
Smooth, featureless face. Neatly pressed uniform. Headset that glitched in and out of existence.
"Welcome, Ray Alvarez," it chirped. "Please proceed to the Manager's Office. No need to sign in. We've been... watching."
It smiled.
I couldn't tell how. But I felt it.
No point arguing.
Inside, the lobby stretched into infinity and then shrank back to the size of a closet. Elevators lined one wall, each door labeled in symbols I couldn't read. One dinged and opened by itself, waiting for me.
I stepped in.
There were no floor buttons. Just one.
It said: MEET.
I pressed it.
The ride up felt... sideways.
Instead of elevator music, a low hum of static and breathing filled the space.
When the doors opened, I stepped into a vast office—empty except for one thing:
A desk.
Sitting behind it was a man in a charcoal suit, fingers steepled, head bowed slightly like he'd been waiting a long time.
"Ray," he said. His voice was smooth, but it made my teeth itch. "Please. Sit."
A chair appeared behind me with a soft thump.
I sat.
The Manager's face was hard to look at—shifting and... familiar, somehow. It was like my own reflection filtered through smoke and bad memories.
"You've done well," he said. "Three successful drops. One... let's call it an awakening."
"You mean the tilted house?" I said. "The one that tried to eat me?"
He smiled—or at least, the air around his face warped like it was smiling.
"An important test. And you passed."
I laughed. Bitter. "You call that passing?"
"Yes," he said simply. "You're still here."
He leaned forward, fingers tapping the desk rhythmically.
"This job isn't about packages," he said. "It's about... adaptation. Growth. Seeing what's real beneath the skin of the world."
A drawer slid open in his desk.
Inside: a package. Black wax paper. Same as before.
Only this one had my name carved into it.
"Your next drop will not be on the map," the Manager said, voice low. "It will find you. Do not let it speak."
"Speak? What the hell does that mean—?"
The walls shivered.
My stomach dropped.
And suddenly, I was outside again—on my moped, package in hand, sky darkening like a storm was brewing in fast-forward.
No confirmation ping.
No reassuring buzz.
Just silence... and the distinct feeling that the world had shifted again.
I looked down at the package, fingers tightening.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I whispered out loud:
"What the hell have I gotten myself into?"