Chapter 1: Burnt Out

Backstory: The Early Days of Death Inc.

Once, Death was everywhere, handling the reaping of souls, guiding the deceased to their afterlife, and keeping the balance of life and death. He was powerful, efficient, and always in control. But after centuries of this grueling, repetitive routine, something began to shift. His bones started to ache, his back would stiffen after long days, and worst of all, his scythe elbow—a condition not unlike carpal tunnel syndrome—began to flare up. Reaping day after day had begun to take its toll. The never-ending parade of souls had become a blur, and Death's own body seemed to be telling him it was time for a change.

He had no time for breaks, no time to rest. There was no one to share the workload with. So, in a moment of rare insight, Death came up with an idea. Death Inc.: a business, a company, a solution to all of his problems. He would hire help, hire the perfect minions—his own creations—to do the reaping, while he focused on the paperwork. The paperwork… now there's where the real work lay.

With a snap of his skeletal fingers, Death summoned his first creation: The Sorrows. These shadowy, otherworldly creatures would handle the reaping, each one empowered with a portion of Death's own abilities. They would go out into the world and gather the souls. Death would take on the simpler task of managing the logistics, stamping the paperwork, and overseeing operations.

At first, things were perfect. The Sorrows did their job efficiently. Death felt relief for the first time in centuries. But with time came an insidious change. As Death focused on his ever-growing stack of paperwork, the Sorrows began to develop ambitions of their own. Greed. The desire for more. The drive to rise in the ranks of Death Inc. quickly took hold, and the monsters that had once been loyal minions slowly became corrupted by the same flaws they'd been created to avoid. Bureaucracy, capitalism, and the overwhelming desire for more souls. The very thing that had been intended to ease Death's burden was now feeding into the very thing that made him exhausted and weary.

Present Day: Death's Breaking Point

The dim glow of Death Inc.'s fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Death sat hunched over his desk. His once-vibrant robe had been replaced with a business suit—a grey, lifeless thing that made him look more like a corporate zombie than the grim reaper he once was. His scythe was placed neatly against the wall, untouched. The papers, however, were piled high—stacked to the ceiling, sprawling over the floor, even creeping under the door.

Death, the very embodiment of mortality itself, slouched in his high-backed office chair, staring at the mountainous stacks of reports littering his desk. Each sheet of paper represented a soul, another person to be processed, another file to be signed off. It was endless, thankless work. He sighed, rubbing the hollow sockets where his eyes used to be, and reached for his mug of coffee—cold. Again.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like insects, adding to the general air of exhaustion permeating Death Inc. The grand, once-majestic hallways of the afterlife's premier soul-processing corporation had become bleak corridors filled with disgruntled employees. The Sorrows, his monstrous underlings responsible for guiding the departed, were growing restless. Once diligent workers, they now skulked about, whispering in corners, snarling at one another, and worse—neglecting their duties. And why shouldn't they? Their boss had long since stopped leading.

Death rubbed his temples. His hands trembled as they stamped another piece of paperwork. Approved. Approved. Approved. The ink was running out. The piles were not shrinking. Next thing he knew, Death lay in the middle of his office, making slow, defeated snow angels in an ocean of paperwork. The sheer weight of unsigned forms, unfinished reports, and misplaced soul assignments had become too much. It was all-consuming. He groaned, letting the crinkling paper swallow him whole.

The door burst open.

"Boss, we have a situation!"

Pump Quinn, his assistant and the only vaguely competent thing left in this company, stumbled in. A sprite of a girl with a pumpkin for a head, she was barely visible behind the tidal wave of paperwork that followed her into the room. A tsunami of unsigned forms and overdue reports crashed over Death, burying him further.

Pump crossed her arms. "You can't just lie there."

Death groaned dramatically. "I think I can."

"You won't have a company left to lie in if you don't do something."

He sat up slowly, papers cascading off of him. He knew she was right. The Sorrows were out of control, and it was his fault. He had let things slip too far. This wasn't just a bureaucratic issue anymore—it was a disaster. He clenched his bony fingers, then took a deep breath.

Enough was enough.

With a snap of his fingers, his tattered cloak settled over his shoulders, and the Sorrows were summoned, their monstrous forms flickering into existence like shadows given shape. His scythe appeared in his grip, heavy with purpose. His Pitbook, long neglected, hovered beside him, flipping open as if eager to be used again.

He adjusted his cloak, straightened his back, and turned to Pump. "Time to beat some sense into my employees."

As he strode toward the door, another monstrous roar echoed through the halls, followed by the unmistakable sounds of destruction. For the first time in a long time, Death felt something stir within him—not exhaustion, not apathy.

Resolve.

And maybe, just a little bit of anger.