Eternity, Inc.? What kind of sick, twisted joke was this? My mind, already reeling from the bizarre encounter on the street, scrambled for a rational explanation. It was a virus. A sophisticated, terrifyingly personal virus that had somehow bricked my phone and replaced its OS with this... this corporate-themed horror show. That had to be it. It was the only explanation that didn't involve me having a complete psychotic break.
My first instinct was to fight back. I was a child of the digital age; I knew my way around a user interface. My thumb jabbed at the icon, holding it down to bring up the context menu. The option to Uninstall should have appeared, along with Add to Home Screen and App Info. Nothing happened. The icon remained stubbornly fixed, a tiny skull mocking my efforts. I swiped, trying to drag it to a trash bin that wasn't there. The icon didn't budge. It was as if it had been etched into the very glass of the screen.
Fine. Plan B. The brute-force approach. I held down the power button on the side of the device, waiting for the familiar prompt to Power Off or Restart. Instead of the menu, a sterile-looking system notification popped up, the kind you can't swipe away. The text was as cold and impersonal as a parking ticket.
[System Alert: This device is integrated with specialized metaphysical components. Standard shutdown protocols are disabled.]
Metaphysical components. The phrase hung in the air of my silent apartment, absurd and chilling. It wasn't a term you found in tech specs on CNET. It was a term you found in ghost-hunting shows and dusty library books. The chill that had settled in my bones earlier seemed to intensify, a gnawing cold that technology had no business creating. The phone wasn't just hacked. It felt fundamentally wrong.
My heart was doing a frantic drum solo against my ribs. I was trapped. The digital world, my usual escape, had become a prison, and this strange, black monolith was my warden. There was only one path forward, one door I hadn't tried. With a deep, shuddering breath and the distinct feeling that I was making a terrible mistake, I surrendered. My thumb, slick with a cold sweat, moved to the center of the screen and tapped the icon for Eternity, Inc.
There was no loading screen, no splashy animation. The app opened instantly, smoothly. The interface was shockingly elegant, a masterclass in minimalist design. It was all sharp lines, a deep charcoal-gray background accented with burnished gold. It looked less like a haunted app and more like the proprietary software for a high-end, luxury investment firm—the kind of place that managed the money of billionaires and Bond villains. The landing page was clean, almost empty, dominated by a single, chillingly polite welcome message in a crisp, gold font.
[Welcome, Employee #815-D. Eternity, Inc. is pleased to have you aboard. We are dedicated to providing a seamless, synergistic, and efficient afterlife experience.]
Employee? Afterlife experience? The language was so jarringly corporate, so blandly professional, it was almost more terrifying than if it had been written in blood. It was the language of HR memos and quarterly reports, now being applied to the great, unknown abyss beyond death.
Below the welcome message were several sleek, clearly labeled tabs: Profile, Assignments, Rewards Catalog, and Internal Memos. The Profile tab had a small, glowing notification dot next to it, pulsing gently. My curiosity, morbid as it was, overrode my fear. I tapped it.
My own face stared back at me. It was a candid photo, one I had never seen before, likely taken from a security camera or some other unseen lens while I was walking down the street. My expression was one of blissful ignorance, a snapshot of a man who had no idea his life was about to be hijacked by a supernatural corporation. Beneath the photo, my personal information was laid out with the cold, objective precision of an autopsy report.
Designation: Alex Carter
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Terran Division: Chicago Branch
Status: Probationary Field Agent
And then there was the last line. The line that made the air leave my lungs in a silent whoosh. It had an ominous, hourglass-shaped icon next to it.
Contract Expiration (Lifespan Remaining): 30 Days, 0 Hours, 17 Minutes, 5 Seconds.
I watched, mesmerized in horror, as the number 5 flickered and changed to a 4. Then a 3. Then a 2. The seconds were ticking down. Live. On my screen. Each tick was a tiny, digital nail being hammered into my coffin.
The room began to spin. A wave of vertigo washed over me, and my knees buckled, sending me crumpling to the cheap laminate floor of my apartment. My head hit the leg of my IKEA coffee table with a dull thunk. The pain was sharp, real. I welcomed it. It was a grounding sensation in a world that had suddenly become unmoored from reality. This wasn't happening. It was a dream. A hallucination. It had to be. Maybe that woman on the street blew some potent hallucinogenic drug in my face. That was a plausible explanation, right? Far more plausible than... this.
I scrambled back to my feet, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I looked around my apartment, desperately searching for something normal, something real. The pile of laundry in the corner. The dirty dishes in the sink. The faint, persistent smell of stale pizza. It was all still there. My sad, mundane life was all still there. But now, it had an expiration date.
Thirty days. In thirty days, I would be twenty-three years old and dead.
A new kind of panic set in—not the blind, screaming terror from before, but a frantic, problem-solving panic. This was a system. An app. Systems have rules. They have loopholes. I just needed to find them. I snatched the phone from the floor and began to navigate the app with a desperate, feverish energy.
I clicked on the Rewards Catalog. The screen refreshed to show a slick, digital storefront, like a morbid version of Amazon. It was filled with a host of unbelievable items, each with a price listed in a currency I'd never heard of: Merit Points (MP).
Item: Extended Lifespan (+1 Year)
Description: Postpone your contract expiration. Keep grinding, employee!
Cost: 1000 MP
Item: Flawless Health Elixir
Description: Cures all mundane illnesses, from the common cold to chronic disease. Does not protect against metaphysical threats.
Cost: 500 MP
Item: Mega Millions Winning Ticket (Guaranteed)
Description: A pre-cognitively selected lottery ticket. Financial woes are a drag on productivity.
Cost: 250 MP
Item: Aura of Minor Charisma
Description: People will find you slightly more interesting and agreeable. Useful for negotiations and dating.
Cost: 50 MP
The list went on and on, a catalogue of miracles, both grand and trivial. It was the answer to every problem I had ever had. And it was all completely out of reach. In the top right corner of the screen, my balance was displayed in stark, gold numbers: Current Merit Points: 0.
My hope curdled back into despair. It was a cruel joke. Showing me everything I could ever want, only to remind me I had nothing. My eyes scanned the menu again. There was only one tab left that wasn't greyed out, one last avenue to explore. The Assignments tab. I clicked it.
The screen changed to a new layout, styled like a project management tool—a Trello board for the damned. There was a single task card waiting for me.
[Assignment Type: Spirit Appeasement (Tier 1)] [Target Designation: Jessica Miller, Female, Deceased at 25] [Cause of Expiration: Vehicular Collision, Unnatural Circumstances] [Assignment Brief: The residual psychic energy (spirit) of Jessica Miller has formed a parasitic attachment to you following an unsanctioned ectoplasmic transfer event (see Incident Report #942). Her unresolved trauma—her "regret"—is the primary anchor binding her to the mortal plane. Your task is to identify and resolve this regret, allowing the spirit to be processed through standard afterlife channels.]
My blood froze. Ectoplasmic transfer event. The gust of ash. The bone-deep chill. The woman in the white dress. It all clicked into place, forming a picture of absolute horror. She wasn't just a random ghost. She was my ghost. She was attached to me. The constant cold I felt in my chest… that was her.
I scrolled down past the brief, my hand shaking so badly I could barely control it. The final, crucial details were at the bottom of the card.
[Reward for Successful Completion: 10 Merit Points] [Penalty for Failure or Refusal: Your soul, weakened by the parasitic attachment, will be consumed by the target spirit, resulting in a catastrophic contract breach. Do not let this happen.]
Soul consumed. The words were so blunt, so final. Suddenly, the 30-day countdown seemed like a generous offer. It wasn't just a deadline; it was a grace period. My real, immediate threat was the invisible, vengeful passenger I had picked up. I was living on borrowed time, in more ways than one.
As if sensing my despair, the phone vibrated softly in my hand. A final system prompt appeared at the bottom of the screen, complete with a cheerful emoji that was the most sinister thing I had ever seen.
[We are confident in your ability to meet this challenge. Eternity, Inc. values proactive and resourceful employees. We hope you enjoy your new career! 😊]