Whiteness. Absolute, sterile, oppressive. The soul, still a formless clot of consciousness, stood silently in the middle of the marble office, staring at the man behind the desk. The man, in turn, stared back at it. His gaze was devoid of emotion, empty and weary, like that of a bureaucrat at the end of a limitless workday. Seconds dripped by in the viscous silence, not measured by the ticking of a clock, but felt as a mounting pressure.
At last, a shadow of irritation flickered across the man's flawless face. A thin line creased between his snow-white eyebrows, and the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Are you going to stand there long?"
The voice was smooth, almost melodic, but it held a note of chronic boredom, as if he had asked this question a million times before. The soul flinched, its nebulous form rippling in surprise, like the surface of water disturbed by a stone. It was the first sound to break the silence of this place. It hadn't known it could move of its own will. Slowly, with an effort that felt titanic, it took a step, then another, approaching the desk.
The man watched, perfectly aware of the waves of surprise and caution emanating from the indistinct figure. He waited until the soul had settled onto a matching white marble chair that had silently appeared before his desk, and only then continued. His movements were professional, honed to automaticity. He smoothly opened the top drawer of the desk—a normal, unremarkable drawer. But then, instead of pulling something out of it, he sharply pulled the open drawer upward.
The soul watched in astonishment at the impossible sight. The drawer did not end. It continued to extend up, transforming into a gigantic tower that receded into the infinite white height. It was a card catalog. A construct of pearlescent wood, consisting of millions, billions of cells, it grew and grew, piercing the white nothingness for what seemed like miles. At a certain point, the tower's growth stopped. The man, without even looking, reached for a specific, nondescript drawer somewhere in the dizzying heights, and it slid out smoothly. He retrieved a single document from it, a thin card, and slapped it down on the desk. Simultaneously with this gesture, the entire grandiose structure silently vanished back into the desk, as if it had never been.
He silently opened the card. His eyes quickly scanned the lines, which were invisible to the soul. After a few seconds, he closed it with a soft click and shifted his gaze to the figure, which was holding its breath.
"Well, well, well," he began his monologue, his voice just as colorless. "Here you are. I must admit, I'm surprised. According to all calculations, your trajectory should have ended in 'The Purifier' several eons ago. You almost made it, didn't you? Felt the pull, the warmth of nonexistence. Most in your position gladly dive right in, just to end this comedy sooner. But you… you turned around and crawled back." He paused, tilting his head slightly, as if listening to the soul's emotions. "Interesting. A very rare case. Almost unprecedented."
He glanced at the card again. "Let's see… Life… gray. No highs, no lows. School, home, internet. No friends, no enemies, no hobbies. Just existence. A passive observation of others living. You were a spectator in your own movie, one you didn't even bother to make. You voluntarily locked yourself in a box, and then complained it was cramped. A pathetic sight." He had expected to see a wave of regret, remorse, pain. But instead, he sensed only… embarrassment and tense attention. The soul wasn't mourning its past life. It was ashamed of it.
The man sighed again, this time more deeply, with a hint of almost human fatigue. "Alright. It seems you're not entirely hopeless, if you're capable of shame, at least. That changes things. A little."
He reached into the drawer again, this time without the theatrics, and took out another sheet, a simple form, and placed it in front of the soul. "Figure it out yourself," he tossed out dryly, noticing the question in its aura.
The soul shifted its gaze to the sheet. It was covered in myriad words in a completely unfamiliar, ornate language, composed of symbols that looked like a cross between runes and hieroglyphs. But the moment it focused, the meaning of the text began to appear directly in its thoughts, clear and precise, as if it were reading its native tongue.
It was a contract. "The Final Chance Contract."
It stated that the soul was receiving the opportunity to live one more life. This life would be the final test, the results of which would determine its ultimate fate. That wormhole outside, as it turned out, wasn't just a black hole, but the embodiment of the eternal cycle of rebirth. Everything that fell into it was completely cleansed of memory, personality, of its very essence, and the soul took on a completely different, new form. A complete reboot. The death of the ego.
The gist of the contract was simple: it was being given one more chance. But if, at the conclusion of this new life, the results remained the same—the same apathy, the same passivity, the same flight from the world—it would face final oblivion. Not rebirth, but a complete, absolute erasure from the fabric of existence.
As an additional support—so the soul couldn't later complain about an unfair world or unfortunate circumstances—it was offered the chance to choose a so-called "cheat." Any power, any ability that would help it in its new life. Below was a blank space where it was to describe its wish.
The soul stared at the empty field for a long time. Options swirled through its consciousness. Limitless magic? Unbelievable physical strength? The ability to control time? Money? Power? The possibilities were endless. It thrashed about, not knowing what to choose. What could guarantee it wouldn't repeat its mistakes?
And at some point, it stopped abruptly and thought. It wasn't skills it had lacked. It wasn't power. Its entire past life, it had done exactly what it had decided to do. And it was its choice—or rather, its refusal to choose—that had led it to all this. The problem wasn't the world. The problem was itself. And it made a decision.
Its ghostly hand reached for the form. It didn't know how it would write, but the desire was so strong that a dark pigment, like ink, began to concentrate at its fingertips. It began to describe its wish. At first, it was just words: "strength," "speed," "endurance." But then the description became more and more detailed. "The ability to analyze and destroy supernatural phenomena," "a body that knows no fatigue," "reflexes that outpace thought." And at some point, it became clear it wasn't describing an abstract ability. It was describing a character.
The very character it had admired so much during its past, gray life. The hero from an old novel, whose strength, audacity, and disdain for boredom had seemed to it the embodiment of true freedom.
Sakamaki Izayoi.
Finished, the soul passed the sheet back to the man. He took it lazily, his eyes scanning what was written. A crooked, cynical smirk slowly spread across his lips.
"Well then. Live your life worthily. However, remember,"—he raised his tired eyes to it, eyes holding not a single drop of sympathy—"that trash will always be trash."
He snapped his fingers.
The world around the soul exploded in a blinding flash and disappeared.
The man was left alone in the silence of his white office. He looked at the sheet in his hand, smirked one more time, and then opened the drawer again. The gigantic card catalog soared upward. He found the right cell, and the sheet the soul had just held was sent to its place. The name of the section where it now rested glowed for a moment, and the old, forgotten name of the protagonist was replaced by a new one.
Izayoi Jin.