Chapter 1 – Really Bad Day

By ten in the morning, my coffee was cold, my editor was yelling, and my phone had buzzed itself halfway to death.

So, objectively speaking, it wasn’t even in the top five worst days of my career.

“Drop it,” my editor said, leaning over my desk like he might physically push the article back into my computer. “You don’t have proof. You have numbers and vibes.”

“They’re not vibes,” I said. “They’re municipal disaster projections that line up a little too perfectly with actual corpses.”

“Stop saying corpses in the office.”

“Stop having corpses show up in my research.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. That was his tell. Pinch meant you’re ruining my day. Rubbing his temples meant you’re ruining my life.

“This company advertises with us,” he said. “You publish this, they pull out. You like being employed?”

“I tolerate it,” I said.

He sighed. “Take the rest of the day off.”

That was editor-speak for please disappear before I do something illegal.

I shut my laptop, slung my bag over my shoulder, and left before security decided to help me achieve inner peace through forced relocation.

Outside, Osaka was loud in the way only Osaka could be. Screens stacked on buildings, people stacked on trains, information stacked on information until the air itself felt busy. Billboards scrolled ads, news, numbers. Casualty figures from last night’s industrial accident flashed for half a second before switching to ramen discounts.

I stopped walking.

The number flickered.

Then it changed.

I blinked. It went back to the ad.

“Huh,” I muttered. “That’s new.”

I chalked it up to sleep deprivation and stress, which was my answer for most unexplained phenomena, including my last relationship.

My phone buzzed again. A message from one of my sources—an engineer who liked to talk too much after his third drink.

You’re onto something. Don’t come to the office. They’re watching traffic.

That was not ominous at all.

I ducked into a café, ordered another coffee I didn’t need, and opened my laptop. The article stared back at me, half-written, half-suicidal.

Projected fatalities. Statistical inevitability. Predictive modeling treated like divine scripture.

“This is going to get me fired,” I whispered.

Or killed.

The voice did not come from the café.

It did not come from anywhere outside my head.

I froze, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

“…Okay,” I said slowly. “Either I finally snapped, or someone is talking in my skull. And statistically speaking—”

You are very noisy.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. A short, sharp sound that earned me looks from the barista.

“Yeah,” I said under my breath. “That tracks.”

This place is wrong, the voice continued. Why is everything glowing?

I looked at the screens, the cables, the flowing data disguised as light.

“Welcome to Osaka,” I said. “We upgraded.”

There was a pause. Not silence—more like something ancient taking a breath it hadn’t needed in a long time.

I am Death.

I stared at my reflection in the dark screen of my laptop.

“…Right,” I said. “Of course you are.”

You do not believe me.

“Listen,” I whispered, “if you’re my conscience, we need to renegotiate how this works. If you’re a hallucination, you’re underperforming. And if you’re actually Death—”

Yes?

I swallowed.

“—you picked the wrong guy. I complain too much.”

Another pause.

That much is already clear.

Outside, sirens wailed. Not close. Yet.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a news alert.

Industrial Accident Predicted Minutes Before Occurrence. Officials Deny Use of Forecast Systems.

My coffee spilled as my hand shook.

Inside my head, Death was very quiet.

And somehow, that was worse.