The Town of Limbo wasn’t really a Town.

It was a port—vast, grey, and endless. Thousands—no, millions—of souls stood in winding lines that coiled like vines across the plaza outside the black city. Some stood patiently. Others shifted nervously, talking in low voices. Most just stared ahead.

At the front of each queue were two swirling portals—twin whirlpools of silver and white mist, framed by polished archways that shimmered like water in sunlight. One swirled clockwise. The other counter-clockwise. Both pulsed with faint energy.

When a name was called, a person stepped forward.

Sometimes they walked in without hesitation.

Sometimes they argued, screamed, begged.

And sometimes… they smiled.

Miles watched, arms crossed tightly, brow furrowed. He couldn't hear everything—but he saw the patterns. A tall woman stepped into one portal sobbing with relief. A man tried to fight off two masked workers before being dragged into the other. Two teens hugged tightly before they were separated.

Each time someone passed through, they emerged—briefly visible—on a staircase. But which was which?

One stair led up. Pale light, clean air, almost hopeful.

The other descended, spiral and steep, into shadows.

He couldn’t tell which meant life and which meant death.

“Miles Traverse!” a voice called.

He jumped.

A tall woman stood near a worn kiosk, tapping a strange crystal tablet with long painted nails. Her skull mask was neatly carved with tiny floral details, and a thick wave of curly black hair spilled from under her hood.

Her name tag, scrawled in glitter pen: Pam.

“Date of birth?” she asked flatly.

“Uh—um. Third of February,” Miles stuttered.

Pam blinked. Tapped the tablet. Raised an eyebrow.

“Well, according to this, you’re not supposed to die for another twenty years.”

Miles perked up. “Wait—so I’m not dead?”

Pam sighed. “No, honey. You are dead. You’re just not supposed to be.”

His stomach sank. “Only twenty years left?”

Pam scrolled. “That’s if you stop ordering takeout and don't develop a gaming-related blood clot. If you do, you’ve got thirty years on top of that before you’re flattened by a falling fridge because you weren’t paying attention crossing the street.”

Miles blinked. “A fridge?”

Pam didn’t look up. “Strapped to a lorry. Poorly. I’ve seen worse.”

“But the locker thing?” Miles asked.

“Not on the list,” she confirmed, eyes narrowing. “That’s why you're here, in the mess queue.”

She started asking questions in rapid-fire:

“Do you have any organ donor status registered?”

“Uh—I think my mum ticked it once on—”

“Have you ever been declared clinically dead before?”

“No?”

“Ever eaten a cursed pastry?”

“...Is that a thing?!”

A tall, slouching coworker wandered over, his mask chipped and half falling off. His robe had coffee stains down the front.

“Oi Pam,” he said, peering over her shoulder. “What's this then?”

“Kid died by locker crush,” Pam said.

The man—Roger, according to his badge—snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“Look.” She turned the screen. “Totally unlogged. No reaper tag. No crossover permit. Just poof. Splat.”

Roger laughed so hard his mask slipped sideways. “I love it. Classic limbo glitch. This is exactly why we need new management.”

Miles threw up his hands. “Okay, no. No. This isn't real. This is a dream. A bad one. I’ve played too many games, and now I’m hallucinating. My brain’s probably just rebooting—”

“Dead,” came a sing-song voice behind him.

He turned to see a girl in a shorter grey robe with a daisy pinned to her skull mask. The mask had petals painted around the edges like a flower crown.

She waved. “Hi! You’re totally dead.”

Miles stared. “...Who are you?”

“Daisy,” she chirped. “Customer care, part-time lunch witch. Trust me, sweetie—if you were hallucinating, it would be way more exciting. This is the boring death admin zone. Sooo—yeah. You’re toast.”

Miles began to panic. “Please—can I not die today? Can’t someone fix this? There’s gotta be some kind of reset, right?”

Before anyone could respond—

“W-wait! H-hi! Um—I-I’d like a word please—!”

A girl in a frilly, salmon-pink robe came skidding forward, sleeves flapping. Her skull mask was adorably oversized, painted with blush and heart stickers. The robes trailed too long on her, and the hood kept slipping off her head.

She tripped on the edge of her robe and tumbled forward with a squeak.

Thud.

Everyone turned to stare.

She popped up, brushing herself off. “I’m okay!”

Then she pointed—right at Miles.

“I… I need to speak to you about him.”

The silence that followed the girl's declaration was sharp enough to cut.

Several nearby workers had stopped what they were doing to stare, and a low wave of whispers passed between the masked staff like a chill breeze.

Then—thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps like hammers struck the stone.

From between two massive stone pillars, a man emerged—tall as a tree and built like a siege weapon. His reaper robes were trimmed with silver thread, his skull mask shaped like a lion’s, horns sweeping back from the brow. Every step radiated authority.

Pam straightened. Daisy squeaked and backed up.

Even Roger stopped slouching.

The man looked down at the pink-robed girl—then slowly turned his head toward Miles.

"This the soul causing all the commotion?" he rumbled, voice like thunder behind marble.

The girl nodded nervously. “Y-yes, sir. I—I would like to request permission for escort to upper management. I believe there's been a misfiled death. A-a fate clash.”

The towering reaper exhaled. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then: “Fine. But you’re responsible.”

The girl bowed low. “Thank you, sir!”

Then she turned, eyes wide behind her too-large skull mask, and looked directly at Miles. “Um… this way. Please.”

Miles, who was pretty sure this was still some extremely elaborate fever dream, followed without a word.

The dirigible was floating at the edge of the plaza, tethered by glowing chains that hissed with steam and ghostly light. Its balloon was made of woven rune-etched silk that shimmered with starlight, and the gondola below looked like something stitched together from an old library and a Victorian tea room. Enchanted gears ticked along the sides, and ghost-fire pulsed faintly from its lanterns.

The girl ushered him aboard, pulling a lever with both hands and nearly falling over again.

The dirigible lifted, slowly and smoothly, rising above the City of the Dead.

Miles leaned against the railing, eyes wide.

Below them, the underworld sprawled in impossible beauty—glowing trees lighting the avenues, great towers carved from obsidian and onyx, a lake that reflected nothing but stars. Silent trains crossed bridges of bone and moonlight. It was stunning and terrifying all at once.

“…Wow,” Miles murmured. “This place is...”

“Beautiful,” the girl finished quietly beside him.

He turned to her. “So, uh. You work here?”

She winced. “Y-yeah. I’m so sorry about all this. Really, I am.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, still trying to process the fact that he might be dead. “But... where are we going?”

“To see my boss,” she said brightly. Then less brightly: “I’m... hoping he can help restore your body.”

Miles blinked. “Wait. Restore?”

She nodded, gripping the edge of her sleeve. “Because… I’m the one who killed you.”

Miles furrowed his brow. “What? No—some bully shoved a locker on top of me.”

“I know,” she said, her voice softening. “But that wasn’t supposed to happen. That wasn’t your time. When I touched you… I forced death onto you. The method of your real death couldn’t be executed anymore—so fate tried to improvise.”

“Wait wait wait,” Miles held up a hand. “Back up. You’re saying a touch from you killed me?”

She hesitated. Then turned to look at him, eyes glowing faintly red through her mask.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Because it’s my job.”

With careful, shaking fingers, she lifted the skull mask from her face and lowered her hood.

And Miles saw her properly.

The girl from earlier.

The one who’d vanished in the hallway.

Only now, her skin was a soft, stony grey, like polished marble. Her hair was snow white, falling in soft waves to her shoulders. And her eyes—those bright, watery blue eyes—had turned into glowing ruby red, deep and luminous like crystallized blood.

But she didn’t look scary.

She looked small. Gentle. Like a candle trying not to flicker in the wind.

She smiled, nervous and sweet.

“I’m Cinder Grimm,” she said softly.

“And I’m a Reaper of Souls.”