Jason had woken up in a morgue with a newfound talent for mayhem and a head full of static. Doc had patched him up, but the past remained stubbornly out of reach. The only clues to his previous life were the strange symbols that danced in his dreams and the preternatural strength coursing through his veins. So, he'd hung out his shingle – "All Occult Investigations: We Don't Judge, We Just Cleanse."
The office itself wasn't much to look at – a cramped space above a discount wig store, reeking of mildew and regret. But it was his. Papers overflowed from every surface, each one meticulously documenting his encounters with the city's underbelly of phantoms, pixies, and the occasional particularly grumpy poltergeist.
Tonight's report detailed a nasty case of demonic possession involving a particularly irate toaster and a family of hedgehogs. With a final flourish, Jason signed the report, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. Maybe he didn't remember his past, but he was damn good at his present. Besides, who needed a past when you had a future filled with disgruntled appliances and hedgehogs with an attitude?