Chapter Five

  Thank You for Visiting

  

  Smooth, lazy jazz curling through the air like cigarette smoke in a dimly lit lounge. The Girl from Ipanema. The 1970s version. It loops—soft, hypnotic—a lullaby for the disoriented.

  I open my eyes.

  Glass. Walls, ceiling, floor—translucent, pulsing with an ethereal shimmer. Beyond them, the void stretches in every direction. Swirling nebulas bleed color into the abyss, cosmic storms churn in slow motion, and distant stars flicker like they’re playing some celestial game of hide-and-seek.

  I’m floating.

  No—weightless. Standing? Sitting? Doesn’t matter. No up, no down. Just that eerie, dreamlike sensation of existing without gravity. I lift my hand, and it drifts, thick and sluggish, like moving through water.

  I exhale sharply. “Not this shit again.”

  Dying is starting to feel like an unpaid internship.

  I rub my face, but there’s no real sensation—just the ghost of movement. How many times has this happened? Three? Four? More? The memories blur together, fading the harder I try to focus. I remember pain. Impact. Something cracking—bones? Mine, probably. And then… nothing.

  My death count is officially concerning.

  I try to pace, but my steps lack weight, like I’m a marionette tugged by invisible strings. My mind latches onto my last moments—flashes of violence, snarling demi-human women, claws, teeth. A final, brutal strike sending me spiraling into the void.

  Am I bad at this, or does the universe just have it out for me?

  The elevator hums along, smooth and endless. No buttons. No panel. No destination. Just an unbroken ascent through infinity.

  Then—flicker.

  The glass ripples like disturbed water. Shadows coil and twist across the walls, stretching into familiar shapes.

  A courtroom. My ex-wife’s icy glare as she levels the final verdict.

  My kids, laughing by a bonfire, their faces warm, flickering in firelight.

  My sister, arms crossed, head shaking in exasperation.

  My farm—golden fields swaying in the sunset.

  I reach out.

  The images dissolve like breath on cold glass.

  A sharp pang twists in my chest. A cosmic slideshow? A final memory reel before I get booted to whatever’s next? Or worse—am I forgetting them? If I don’t make it back, if I keep dying, if I… move on, do they disappear with me?

  No.

  I clench my fists. Not happening.

  The music stutters.

  Just for a second. The jazz warps, stretches, like a cassette tape on its last leg. Static crackles through the air.

  And suddenly—I feel it.

  The shift.

  Something presses against the elevator’s walls from the outside.

  Watching.

  My breath stills. Instinct screams—this isn’t just some passive transition. Something else is here. Something aware.

  The void pulses. The space outside distorts, warping in unnatural waves. Like something out there is trying to breach the walls.

  Then—whispering.

  Faint. Just on the edge of hearing.

  A shiver runs down my spine. Not just a sound. It feels personal. Familiar.

  My pulse spikes. I know that voice.

  The words slip through my grasp like a dream upon waking.

  I press a palm to the glass. “Who’s there?”

  No answer.

  But the whisper lingers. In my head. Under my skin.

  A sharp jolt.

  The elevator jerks, stutters—then resumes. The view outside ripples violently, warping like a heatwave. The pressure builds, pushing against me, around me.

  Something doesn’t want me getting to wherever this thing is taking me.

  I brace myself, even though I know—instinctively, deeply—I have no control here.

  Then—ding.

  The soft chime slices through the silence. The doors slide open.

  Blinding white light floods the space. I squint, raising a hand against the glare.

  The whisper in my head grows louder. Urgent.

  The unseen force—whatever it was—has let go. Or lost.

  And I am left standing in a world I do not recognize.

  I take a step forward. Then another.

  A cheerful chime echoes—light, mechanical, almost

  playful.

  "Thank you for visiting Eidolon. We hope

  you enjoyed your stay. Please proceed to processing and await further

  instructions."

  The chime rings again.

  Then—the elevator behind me is just

  I turn, and my senses are hit with something

  impossible.

  A surreal expanse unfolds before me—contradictions stacked upon contradictions. An ethereal office drifts in the heart of a glowing, chaotic void. Scrolls glide past like a silent procession of whispers, their edges curling with ghostly ink, carrying the faint scent of lavender and something older—something just beyond recognition. The walls pulse with shifting stardust, the universe itself unraveling at the seams, struggling to hold its shape.

  A fountain sculpted from pure light spills radiant energy in liquid streams that evaporate before touching the ground. The entire space feels… unfinished. Like I’ve wandered into the remnants of a half-formed dream someone abandoned mid-thought.

  I take a slow breath, grounding myself. The air is thick—not quite humid, not quite heavy. Just… present. Soft golden light filters through the space, flickering as if uncertain whether it should exist at all. A hum vibrates beneath it all, steady and low, like the distant purr of some unseen cosmic machine.

  Not the afterlife I expected.

  No pearly gates. No endless fields of serenity. Just this—a hollowed-out office that looks like it should be bustling but stands eerily still. Pristine, yet fatigued, like someone tried to clean up a mess they’d long since stopped caring about.

  I step forward, testing the ground. My boots make no sound on the translucent floor—liquid glass, shimmering like it’s alive. A phantom breeze brushes against my skin, though there’s no air. And the silence… it’s vast, unnatural, broken only by the distant whir of something that sounds suspiciously like an office copier.

  Dead? Alive? Somewhere in between? No idea.

  “Well, well…”

  The voice is smooth, slow. Amused.

  I turn.

  At the far end of the room, behind a crystalline desk that catches and refracts the shifting light, a figure lounges with the kind of ease that comes from either absolute power or absolute indifference. He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t even straighten. Just exists, half-draped over his chair, like he’s moments from dozing off again.

  The man—god?—doesn’t look divine. Not in the way I’d imagined. He’s disheveled, his clothes mismatched, like someone tossed him from a bar straight into eternity. His hair’s a mess, some botched cut that refuses to behave. His golden eyes, half-lidded, track me lazily, like he’s still deciding whether I’m worth acknowledging.

  "Welcome to the office," he says, casual, like he’s explaining something incredibly obvious to a slow learner.

  I stare. “Office?” My voice comes out flat. “Didn’t realize the afterlife required paperwork.”

  He shrugs. “Everything requires paperwork. Even gods have red tape.” A ghost of a smirk flickers at his mouth, but it’s impossible to tell if he’s joking or just resigned to the absurdity of it all.

  I exhale sharply. So this is it, then. No celestial courts. No ethereal choirs. Just some half-interested, tie-dye-wearing god who looks three seconds from a nap.

  And then, as if to further underline the absurdity of my situation, someone else appears.

  She doesn’t walk in. She arrives—a swirl of golden smoke folding in on itself, twisting into the shape of a woman. And unlike the first, she is very aware of her presence.

  Tall. Striking. Sharp. A gown of living shadow flows around her, delicate yet commanding. Black silk cascades down her back, her hair a dark river of motionless perfection. But it’s her eyes that hold me—keen, knowing, gleaming with something that feels like a challenge.

  She studies me, slow and deliberate. Then, a smile. Not warm. Not welcoming.

  "You must be the one they sent," she says, voice rich with unspoken intent. "The Soul-Binder."

  The words coil around me, and my gut knots. Of course they know who I am. Nothing happens in a place like this without their say-so.

  "And you are?" I ask, keeping my tone even.

  Her smile deepens, something just shy of predatory. “Ishtar. I’ll be… watching over you.”

  The weight of her gaze presses against me, layered with interest, threat, amusement. And something else I can’t place.

  I open my mouth, ready to push back—Great. A cosmic babysitter.—but the sharp clatter of a tray interrupts me.

  A woman—no, something—has appeared beside me. She moves with eerie stillness, the body of a woman, the head of a deer. Her large, liquid-dark eyes meet mine as she holds out a steaming cup.

  "I thought you might be thirsty," she offers, her voice an odd contradiction—gentle, yet edged with something distant.

  I glance at the cup. Dark liquid. Steam curling lazily upward.

  “Coffee?” My voice is dry. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?” I scan the surreal office. “This is the afterlife, right?”

  The Deer Woman merely nods.

  I look at the cup again. The scent is rich, familiar. Real.

  "Sure," I mutter, taking it from her grasp. The warmth seeps into my fingers, grounding me in a way nothing else here has. I inhale. It smells like home. Somehow, impossibly, it smells like home.

  Ishtar watches me with open amusement. “A little normalcy goes a long way,” she purrs.

  Normalcy. Right. Because nothing screams normal like an interdimensional office run by lazy gods and deer-headed baristas.

  The man behind the desk—Zen, I’m calling it now—lets out a long yawn. "I’m sure it’s a lot to process," he says, voice as indifferent as ever. "But you’ll get used to it. Oh, and by the way—I’m Zen. Not that you asked. Or care."

  “Get used to it?” I echo, leveling a look at him. “I wake up in some divine bureaucracy with coffee-drinking deer and existential paperwork, and that’s your advice?”

  Zen shrugs. “More or less.”

  I turn to Ishtar. “And what exactly happens to me now? Am I supposed to do something? What’s my fate?”

  Ishtar leans in, deliberate, calculated. “Fate?” Her smile sharpens, all teeth and amusement. “Oh, dear. You’re thinking about this all wrong. You’re not here to do anything.” A pause, predatory patience in every movement. “You’re here to play.”

  Silence stretches. My pulse quickens.

  I force a smirk, letting sarcasm armor me. “Play. Right. And what, exactly, am I supposed to be playing?”

  Zen stretches, barely bothering to hide his grin.

  Ishtar’s smile turns razor-edged. “A game.” Her voice is softer now. More dangerous. “And whether you win or lose… depends entirely on you.”

  The air shifts, tightening around me.

  I take another sip of coffee, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue.

  Somehow, I don’t think this is a game I get to quit.

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  I look around—and immediately regret it.

  The space feels wrong. Like it shouldn't exist. Like shouldn’t exist.

  The air hums. Not with sound, but something deeper. A resonance that sinks into my bones—soft, soothing, yet , like a half-remembered dream slipping through my fingers. Everything around me is a contradiction—divine yet mundane, celestial yet corporate.

  The walls shimmer, shifting like an endless night sky, constellations flickering across smooth, pale-blue stone. It’s breathtaking. Unreal. Like I’m on one weird ass trip.

  And then—

  A desk.

  A polished mahogany desk sits at the far end of the room, absurdly normal against the cosmic backdrop. A gold-plated plaque rests on top, letters gleaming under an unseen light:

  "Boss-Ass-Bitch."

  I blink.

  “Huh.” That’s a thing now.

  Silence stretches. No sudden shift in reality, no grand revelation—just me, standing here, trying to process a desk that has no right to exist.

  I clear my throat, forcing words past the growing unease. “Uh… okay. Ignoring for a second—what kind of afterlife is this supposed to be?”

  A sound behind me.

  Soft steps against marble.

  The air shifts—cool and sharp, brushing over my skin like the weight of an unseen tide.

  Then steps into view.

  Ishtar.

  A goddess. A presence. A force.

  And the moment I see her, I know—I

  I’ve seen her before. Or… her. Because looking at her now, I understand—she is .

  Dark waves of hair, blacker than the void between stars, shifting like it’s alive. Skin kissed with an impossible glow, golden and flawless. And her eyes—, her eyes—like twin galaxies locked in orbit, staring me, past me, into something deeper. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes you question the laws of nature. The kind that makes you wonder if the universe just… after making her.

  She barely glances at me, yet I feel . Insignificant. Like dust in the presence of something immeasurable.

  Without a word, she strides past me, fluid and effortless, and settles behind the ridiculous desk. Fingers skim across scattered documents, golden ink twisting over the pages like sacred scripture or forbidden knowledge. The letters don’t sit still. They shift, ripple—like they know I shouldn’t be looking at them.

  Then, just as quickly, she stands. Leans against the desk. Lifts a contract between two fingers, flipping through it like I’m barely worth acknowledging.

  And yet—I it. The weight. The pull. A force in my chest, a whisper at the edge of thought, a need to kneel, to beg—

  For what?

  I don’t know.

  "Really?" I mutter, shaking it off. "We’re doing now?"

  Her gaze snaps to mine, head tilting slightly. Curious. Amused. .

  “Interesting…” she murmurs.

  I narrow my eyes. "So, what? This is death? Some weird celestial office with a succubus cosplaying as a god?"

  She smiles—a slow, knowing thing. Dangerous.

  "Succubus?" She chuckles. "Oh, darling… to the afterlife."

  Before I can respond, she moves—so fast I barely register it. A touch—just the briefest brush of her fingers against the back of my head—

  And I’m .

  Not moving to sit. Not deciding to sit.

  Just—

  As if the universe corrected a misplaced comma in reality’s script.

  I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

  Then, her fingers in my hair.

  Slow. Deliberate. A heat curling down my spine.

  “Son of a bitch—!” I jolt, snapping back, shoving away the haze creeping into my thoughts. "Stop that! How the

  are you doing that?"

  She leans in. Too close. Lips brushing the shell of my ear, her voice velvet and razor-edged.

  "Oh, darling…" A slow exhale. Threat or promise? ""

  I swallow hard, torn between wanting to punch her and pass out. Maybe both.

  We lock eyes.

  She leans in.

  I feel it again—that , that impossible weight dragging me forward—

  I wrench myself free a second time, breath coming sharp.

  This time, her expression flickers—mild irritation laced with something else. Something sharper.

  “That’s the third time,” she muses, studying me like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. She leans in, eyes narrowing slightly. "Now I have to ask, darling… are you doing that?"

  Silence.

  Then—

  A voice from across the room.

  “Yo, Ish… don’t break the guy just yet.”

  Zen.

  He’s lounging on a floating couch—floating, because —arms folded behind his head, the picture of effortless disinterest. Long hair, unshaven, a stoner-god vibe wrapped in an aura of cosmic apathy. He scratches his beard, yawns, and waves lazily.

  Ishtar rolls her eyes. "Oh, , Zen." Her voice is syrup-sweet poison.

  I exhale, only now realizing I’d been holding my breath.

  "You two just gonna sit there and mess with me?" I snap, gesturing wildly. "I’m supposed to be , and this is what I get? A weird-ass office, creepy gods, and ?"

  Zen gives a slow, lazy grin. "You still don’t get it, do you, man?"

  He stretches, letting out a long breath. "This place? This ? It’s like… a corporate conglomerate of divine chaos, man. . They handle everything. Realms, the afterlife, cosmic paperwork. The works."

  I blink.

  "...You’re telling me I got sent to some divine where I’m just another customer in line?"

  "Pretty much, yeah."

  I rub my temples. "This is . I am not some cog in a goddamn cosmic machine."

  "You that, but—" Zen shrugs. "You’ll get used to it."

  I scoff. "And what, you two this place? Some kind of divine sibling rivalry?"

  Ishtar chuckles—dark, knowing. Too amused.

  Zen gestures lazily at her. "Ish? She’s all about ‘aggressive micro-management.’"

  Ishtar’s smile sharpens. "I prefer ‘’ over ‘passive incompetence.’"

  I eye them both. "Okay. Fine. So what the

  is Eidolon?"

  Zen stretches again. "Not Earth, man."

  "No shit, Sherlock," I snap. "I figured that out when I was getting my !"

  Ishtar hums, trailing a single finger down my neck. " We that," she purrs. "A fine show, if I do say so myself."

  I shudder. ""

  Zen throws up his hands, grinning. "Hey, man, I didn’t it. The board needed a body. You were

  gonna die, so, y’know…" He waves vaguely. "A little nudge here, a little zap there… "

  My hands curl into fists. ""

  Ishtar laughs.

  She swings a leg over mine—too close—settling onto my lap, fingers tracing my chest. A deliberate game.

  I go rigid. ""

  Her eyes gleam. " I

  have an HR department."

  Zen sighs. ""

  I stare at them both. At the absolute divine absurdity of this situation—

  And all I can do is shake my head.

  “…Fuck.”

  Ishtar leans in close, voice soft, teasing. ""

  "Whoa, man," Zen says quickly, holding up his hands. ""

  I can feel the energy in the air—like a hum that

  vibrates through my skin. Gold light spills from the contract Ishtar’s flipping

  through, its ink shifting like liquid fire. The words twist and shimmer, old

  and binding. She lounges on the edge of her desk, legs casually draped over my

  lap, looking way too pleased with herself.

  A slow smirk spreads across her lips as she leans

  down, reaching for something under the desk. Before I can even react, my body

  lurches. Suddenly, I’m not sitting anymore.

  I’m standing—no, floating.

  In mid-air.

  In front of her desk, just above it.

  Her fingers brush through my hair before I even

  fully process what just happened. She seems taller.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mutter, skin prickling. “A

  little warning would’ve been nice.”

  She smirks and winks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “You’re such a tease.”

  She licks her lips. “Oh, darling. You have no

  idea.”

  She pecks me on the cheek, then nibbles it before

  pushing me off—not that it does much. I float slowly toward the center of the

  room. She takes her time, sauntering back to her desk. Zen, meanwhile, kicks

  back in a chair like he’s got nothing better to do.

  From this angle, I notice something familiar

  between the two. “Alright,” I exhale. “Cut the weirdness. You two are related

  on some cosmic level, huh?”

  Zen shoots me finger guns. “Yup. She’s my

  twin—well, technically. I’m more of a ‘go with the flow’ kinda guy. Ish. She...

  she likes to…”

  Ishtar smirks. “Get down and dirty…”

  I groan. “Fantastic. And where do I fit into all

  this?”

  “Right!” Ishtar pivots, waves her hand, and the

  air shimmers like heat rising off desert sand. Massive holographic screens

  unfold before me, gold and black symbols scrolling so fast they blur together.

  At the top, my name burns in bold:

  Name: Grant Grason Calloway

  Beneath it, stats, abilities, and unfamiliar

  terms stretch down. Some familiar—strength, Endurance, Intelligence—but others?

  Race: [Soul-Binder]

  Class: [Hunter]

  Titles: [None]

  Attributes:

  Strength: 12

  Agility: 11

  Endurance: 14

  Intelligence: 10

  Wisdom: 9

  Charisma: 8

  Skills: [None]

  Catalyst Compatibility: [LOCKED]

  “Alright, darling,” Ishtar says, arms crossed,

  sizing up the projection like a jeweler inspecting a rough diamond. “Let’s see

  what we’re working with.”

  Her voice is smooth, warm, like honey, but

  there’s an edge to it—a sharpness that sneaks up on you.

  Zen lounges in midair, flickering between

  humanoid and something more abstract—like a silhouette painted over shifting

  stars. “Not bad,” he says, hands behind his head. “Kinda barebones, but there’s

  potential.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I mutter. “Always wanted to be a

  fixer-upper project for the gods.”

  The interface flickers as new data loads.

  Zen waves a hand lazily, and suddenly—

  [Prerequisites Met: Unlocking Beast-Master Catalyst

  System]

  [Basic Magic Use] Acquired

  [Appraisal] Acquired

  [Storage] Acquired

  Ishtar scowls. “Ugh. You unlocked it for him?

  That’s cheating.”

  Zen shrugs. “I don’t believe in grind mechanics,

  man. Let the dude play the game.”

  I glance at the changes. Magic? Storage?

  Appraisal? Not bad. But then—

  [Divine Alteration in Progress...]

  “Alteration?” I muse. “What’s that?”

  Ishtar ignores me, flicks her wrist. One of the

  screens reshapes into something unsettling—a wireframe model of me. My body,

  sketched in light, floats in the center of the projection.

  Her lips purse. I can tell trouble’s coming.

  “Hmph,” she mutters. “Theia rushed your avatar

  creation.”

  I feel a shift. My skin tingles. My muscles

  twitch.

  “Wait. Rushed? Like, half-baked rushed?” I turn

  to Ishtar, suspicion creeping in.

  She waves it off. “Nothing catastrophic, dear.

  Just a few… quirks.”

  “Quirks?” I repeat flatly. “What kind of quirks?”

  Zen snickers. “Oh, you’ll love them. Probably.”

  “Probably?” I repeat. “Probably?”

  I stare at Ishtar. “That is

  comforting.”

  She appears before me in a blink. A soft pat on

  my cheek. “You’ll live.” Then, just as quickly, she’s back at her desk.

  Great. Just what a mad goddess would say.

  A rush of warmth floods my body—static under my

  skin, settling into my bones. It’s not painful, but it’s definitely there—a

  weight, a shift, a pulse of energy I didn’t have a second ago.

  I flex my fingers, half-expecting sparks or

  something dramatic. Nothing. Probably for the best.

  “See? Progress!” Ishtar beams. “Now for some

  fine-tuning.”

  Her eyes glint with amusement. That’s my only

  warning before my whole body lurches. Muscles tighten, stretch, shift—not

  painful, but uncomfortable, like an itch I can’t scratch. I grit my teeth.

  Then, just as quickly, it stops.

  “Much better,” she sighs.

  I glance down at myself. Same hands, same body,

  but… something’s different. My balance? The way my muscles respond?

  I eye her warily. “Okay. What exactly did you

  do?”

  “Oh, just corrected a few things. Theia’s a dear,

  but precision isn’t her strong suit.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  She smiles, that mischievous gleam in her eye.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  I stare at her, unamused. “That’s

  reassuring.”

  She winks. “Wasn’t supposed to be.”

  Zen bursts out laughing. “Man, I like you. You’re

  fun when you’re panicking.”

  I resist the urge to throw something at him.

  Just when I think it’s over, Ishtar claps her

  hands. “Now, onto boons!”

  Her grin widens—a predator circling its prey. A

  golden contract appears in her hand.

  “Now, for the fun part,” she sings.

  I narrow my eyes. “That’s never a good thing.”

  “Grant Calloway,” she says, voice dripping with

  mischief. “I present to you my boon.”

  I squint at the fine print. The glowing letters

  ripple, reshaping themselves in real-time. Then I see it.

  “Go ahead, darling,” she coos. “Give it a read.”

  I don’t need to. The second my eyes skim the key

  clause, my brain short-circuits.

  Clause 17B: To invoke the full benefits of Ishtar’s

  divine blessing, the Soul-Binder must—

  1. Engage in acts of physical intimacy with a female partner.

  I blink. Once. Twice. Slowly, I look at her. Very

  slowly. Her smile is from ear to ear.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Ishtar fans herself, looking way too pleased. “I

  call it… motivational management.”

  “Motivational—” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  “Are you serious?”

  She shrugs. “Divine blessings are an investment,

  dear. I like to see returns.”

  “Returns,” I repeat, exhaling sharply. “As in…

  children?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  I turn to Zen. “Is this normal?”

  He gives an exaggerated shrug. “Hey, man, this

  isn’t Earth. I don’t make the rules. I just… vibe with ‘em.”

  I stare at him. Then at Ishtar. Then back at the

  contract.

  The golden script shimmers innocently.

  “Okay…” I sigh. “So where’s the rest of it?”

  Zen shrugs again.

  Ishtar grins even wider. “Oh… did I forget to

  mention?”

  She suddenly appears right in front of me,

  whispering in my ear. “My world is a sandbox… As for the rest of the contract,

  I guess you’ll just have to… fuck around and find out.”

  I chuckle slowly.

  Gods are ridiculous.