"But we haven't even done the vulnerability circle!" Miranda called after him.

  He was already gone, stepping over Marcus (who was still on the floor, intangible and forgotten) and heading for his van. Whatever the delivery was, it had to be better than this.

  His tablet showed the details as he walked:

  PICKUP: Blessed Be Crystals & Cursed Goods

  DELIVERY: Corporate Office Park - Building 7

  PACKAGE: "Aura Cleansing Kit (Potentially Volatile)"

  PAY: $12.50

  DISTANCE: 47 miles

  SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS: Package may achieve sentience during transport. Do not engage in philosophical debate.

  $12.50 wouldn't cover gas. The package would probably try to convince him he didn't really exist. Building 7 was in a temporal flux zone where Thursday happened twice.

  Jack hit accept.

  Behind him, he could hear Miranda leading the team in the Arcane Prime chant: "We deliver magic! We deliver dreams! We deliver shareholder value supreme!"

  The depot door closed behind him, cutting off the sound. His van started on the fifth try. The check engine light was on, as always, a tiny middle finger from the universe.

  At least the package couldn't be worse than trust falls.

  His tablet chimed: Package has achieved sentience.

  Of course it had.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE BIG DELIVERY

  Jack sat in his van in the depot parking lot, engine rattling like a demon with bronchitis. In the back, the sentient package from his last pickup was having what could only be described as a philosophical breakdown.

  "But what if delivery is just a metaphor?" the package whispered through its shipping tape. "What if I'm delivering myself?"

  "You're being delivered to Building 7," Jack said, not for the first time. "That's it. That's the whole thing."

  "But what IS Building 7?"

  "A building."

  "But—"

  The package went suddenly, completely silent.

  Jack's tablet chimed. Not the usual notification sound—the cheery ding that meant another soul-crushing minimum-wage delivery. This was different. A deep, resonant tone he'd only heard twice in eight years. The screen turned gold.

  Every courier in the parking lot turned to look.

  PRIORITY OVERRIDE NOTIFICATION

  PROJECT SUNSET

  Classification: High-Value Entity Transport

  Payout: $847,293.00

  Details: [REDACTED]

  Special Handling Required

  Accept? Y/N

  Jack stared at the number. Checked it again. That wasn't a decimal error. That was more money than he'd make in three lifetimes of delivering cursed yoga mats and haunted essential oils.

  Gary materialized at his window like a bad omen. "Holy shit, is that real?"

  "Seems to be."

  "That's either life-changing money or a life-ending job." Gary sipped from his evil chalice. "Usually both."

  Jack pulled up the job history, his fingers already knowing what he'd find. Seven couriers had accepted PROJECT SUNSET in the past three months. Their profiles all showed the same thing:

  Marcus_Chen92 - Last Active: 3 months ago (Accepted PROJECT SUNSET)

  Last Location: Executive Offices - Floor 93.5

  DeliveryWitch44 - Last Active: 2 months ago (Accepted PROJECT SUNSET)

  Last Location: Executive Offices - Floor 93.5

  Bob_Smith_Actual_Name - Last Active: 6 weeks ago (Accepted PROJECT SUNSET)

  Last Location: Executive Offices - Floor 93.5

  The list went on. None of them had logged in again after accepting. All of them had last been seen at the same location.

  "They're probably fine," Gary said in a tone that suggested they absolutely weren't. "Maybe they just retired. You know, bought an island. Stopped delivering."

  Jack did the math. $847,293 would clear his soul contract three times over. It would leave him with enough to hire a temporal specialist, maybe even one of the good ones from before the industry collapsed. Someone who could reach into that fold where Sarah had been stuck for three years.

  And maybe, for once, tires that weren't held together by desperation and duct tape. Shoes without that hole that let in rain. Small, impossible luxuries that other people took for granted.

  He thought about the Last Job. The "simple" primordial essence delivery that was supposed to set them up for life. Sarah had been driving while he navigated. The essence had destabilized at a red light. Reality had folded like bad origami. He'd watched her hand reaching for his as time crystallized around her, trapping her in a single moment that he revisited every night.

  "Don't take it," Alice said, appearing with her LinkedRune aura still glowing. "That kind of money means they're delivering something that shouldn't exist. Or something that soon won't."

  "Everything we deliver shouldn't exist," Jack said.

  "I mean REALLY shouldn't exist. Like, bureaucratically speaking. Something that makes the auditors nervous."

  The sentient package in the back spoke up: "Perhaps existence itself is the ultimate delivery⁠—"

  "Shut up," everyone said in unison.

  Jack looked at the accept button. It was red. Not the friendly red of a stop sign, but the deep, threatening red of a final notice. Text scrolled beneath it:

  WARNING: Accepting this delivery may result in metaphysical complications, temporal displacement, soul auditing, and/or cessation of existential continuity. Arcane Prime is not responsible for any transformation, sublimation, or incorporation into corporate entities. Please consult your employee handbook section 847.3 for details.

  "Section 847.3 doesn't exist," Alice said helpfully. "I checked."

  "Of course it doesn't."

  Jack thought about another three years of standard deliveries. Another three years of Team Synergy Assessments. Another three years of watching his soul contract somehow get longer despite making every payment. Another three years of Sarah frozen at 2:47 AM, reaching for him.

  He hit accept.

  The tablet's screen immediately went black, then displayed a single message:

  THANK YOU FOR YOUR SACRIFICE—SERVICE. WE MEANT SERVICE.

  "Oh, that's not good," Gary observed.

  A new Shriek notification exploded across the screen with unnecessary fanfare:

  Lenny_Management

  JACK! Buddy! Superstar! Just saw you accepted the PREMIUM OPPORTUNITY! Management is THRILLED! Please report to the Executive Offices, 1847 Meridian Tower, Floor 93.5, at EXACTLY 3:47 PM for your performance review and career advancement discussion! Don't be late! This is MANDATORY FUN! I mean MANDATORY IMPORTANT! Bring Form 77-B! And 77-C! And your soul contract! So exciting!!!

  Right, Jack thought. Section 42-F: Management Override Privilege for Mandatory Fun Communications. He'd signed it. Everyone signed everything. Nobody read anything.

  "Floor 93.5?" Jack muttered.

  "It's between 93 and 94," Alice explained. "You have to believe it exists or the elevator won't stop there."

  The address was in the Financial District's Metaphysical Mile, where reality was kept clean and organized for the comfort of executives. The kind of place where even the ghosts wore suits and the demons had MBAs.

  "You're going to die," Gary said cheerfully. "Can I have your parking spot?"

  "I'm not going to die."

  "They always say that." Gary pulled out his phone. "I'm starting a betting pool. Want in? I've got 3:1 odds on 'transformed into corporate art,' 5:1 on 'absorbed into the building itself,' and 10:1 on 'actually survives but wishes he hadn't.'"

  Alice was already typing on LinkedRune:

  Just watched a colleague accept a doomed delivery! Here's what we can learn about risk-taking in the gig economy! #CourierLife #ProjectSunset #HeDefinitelyDied

  Jack put the van in drive. The sentient package had gone quiet, which was somehow worse than the philosophy.

  "Hey package," Jack called back. "What do you think about death?"

  A long pause. Then, quietly: "I think delivery is a lot like death. It only happens once."

  Even the sentient cargo was getting metaphysical. That should have been a sign.

  Jack drove toward the Metaphysical Mile anyway, the golden notification still glowing on his tablet like a beacon. Or a targeting laser.

  Behind him, he could hear Gary adjusting the odds.

  "Actually, make it 2:1 on corporate art. He's got that look."

  CHAPTER 4

  THE MEETING

  The Meridian Tower stood in the heart of the Metaphysical Mile like a middle finger made of glass and bad intentions. Jack had to circle the building three times before the entrance would acknowledge his van existed. Corporate security was like that—reality only bent for the right tax brackets.

  The lobby was aggressively expensive in the way that suggested money was a personality trait. Everything chrome and marble, like someone had Googled 'what makes poor people uncomfortable' and built that.

  "Delivery for Floor 93.5," Jack told the security guard, who looked like he bench-pressed other security guards for fun.

  "There is no Floor 93.5."

  "I have an appointment to pick up a package? ‘Project Sunset’?"

  The guard's expression shifted from suspicious to pitying. "Elevator bank three. You have to believe it exists or it won't stop there."

  "How do I⁠—"

  "Really believe. Not just say you believe. The elevator knows."

  Jack found elevator bank three. The panel showed floors 1-150, with no mention of half-floors. He pressed 93, then 94, then both at once. Nothing.

  I believe Floor 93.5 exists, he thought.

  The elevator didn't move.

  I believe Floor 93.5 exists because I saw seven dead couriers' last location there.

  Still nothing.

  I believe Floor 93.5 exists because if it doesn't, I drove here for nothing, and I already paid for parking, and parking here costs more than three regular deliveries.

  The elevator dinged. A new button appeared between 93 and 94, labeled in text that hurt to read directly.

  The ride up felt longer than the actual distance. The muzak was a corporate remix of funeral dirges. The floor counter showed normal numbers until 92, then things that weren't quite numbers, then it briefly displayed the words "YOUR FAULT" before settling on 93.5.

  The doors opened onto an office that existed in its own temporal fold. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Jack could see both the city at noon and what looked like the interior of a private space station, complete with a view of Earth below. The inconsistency made his left eye twitch involuntarily.

  "Mr. Thorne! Welcome!"

  The executive's office was exactly what Jack expected—glass and chrome and emotional damage. The man behind the desk stood to greet him, his smile worth more than Jack's van, his suit worth more than Jack's soul contract, his watch worth more than Jack's entire existence. He had the air of someone who'd buy a major newspaper just to fire everyone via email. The kind of person who'd demolish democracy if it improved quarterly earnings.

  "Mr. Thorne! I'm Jeff Be⁠—"

  [LEGAL NOTICE: The author of this work has been notified that any similarity to real persons, living or obscenely wealthy, is grounds for litigation. This notice brought to you by Harbinger, Omen & Associates, LLC. "We Deliver Cease & Desist With Synergy!™" Please stand by while we implement necessary corrections to maintain shareholder value.]

  "Mr. Thorne! I'm Director Crane, Head of Supernatural Acquisitions."

  Jack blinked. He could have sworn the nameplate on the desk had just changed. The gold letters spelling "CRANE" looked suspiciously fresh, and was that... correction fluid underneath? The man's face seemed to flicker, like reality was buffering.

  "Is everything alright?" Crane asked, his definitely-not-recently-altered face showing concern.

  "Yeah, just... thought you were someone else for a second."

  "Happens all the time," Crane said quickly. "I have one of those faces. Generic. Thoroughly non-actionable. Please, sit."

  The chair in front of Crane's desk occasionally phased out of reality. Jack sat down during one of its solid moments and tried not to think about what would happen if it phased while he was in it.

  "Coffee? Water? Artisanal curse-infused kombucha?"

  "I'm good."

  "Excellent! Excellent. Let's leverage some synergies, shall we?" Crane's smile could have been measured in lumens. "You've accepted our premium opportunity for Project Sunset. Fantastic decision. Really showing that go-getter spirit we love to see in our delivery partners."

  "Independent contractors," Jack corrected automatically.

  "Of course. Independent contractors who exclusively work for us, use our equipment, follow our schedules, and have their souls bound to our terms of service. Completely independent."

  Behind Crane, a motivational poster read "DISRUPTION IS MAGIC" over a photo of a local bookstore being consumed by purple flames. Another showed a graph trending upward with the caption "YOUR PRODUCTIVITY IS SOMEONE'S PROFIT."

  "Now," Crane continued, pulling up a holographic display that probably cost more than the entire courier fleet, "Project Sunset is a critical initiative for us. We're dealing with a non-compliant asset that's generating absolutely zero shareholder value."

  "The asset's refusing to generate shareholder value?"

  "Worse," Crane said, his face darkening. "It's generating community value. Completely outside our monetization framework. Are you familiar with the Spirit of Old Town?"

  Jack was. Everyone who'd delivered in the city for more than a month knew about the Spirit. It was the thing that made sure elderly residents could find parking, that kept rent from going completely insane in at least three blocks, that manifested as a helpful stranger when someone was lost. It was, in corporate terms, a complete failure of capitalism.

  "I've heard of it."

  "It's been designated for dissolution. The entire district is scheduled for redevelopment into mixed-use luxury condos with ground-floor ritual spaces. The Spirit is... resistant to relocation."

  "You want me to deliver a god."

  "We want you to deliver a non-compliant metaphysical entity to our long-term storage facility in the Midwest." Crane's smile never wavered. "Standard pickup and delivery. The entity has already been contained using our proprietary Divine Retention System™."

  "The seven couriers before me⁠—"

  "Encountered unexpected challenges. The Spirit has a certain... effect on those who transport it. Makes them question things. Their life choices. Their employment. The fundamental nature of reality as a subscription service. Very inconvenient."

  The chair phased out. Jack fell three inches before it phased back in. Crane didn't even blink.

  "But you," Crane continued, "have something the others didn't. You have a perfect record of not giving a shit. Your psychological profile shows complete emotional burnout, total cynicism, and a void where hope should be. You're perfect for this."

  "Thanks?"

  "It's a compliment! Do you know how hard it is to find someone with absolutely no idealism left? Most people crack after three, four years tops. But you? Eight years and you're still showing up. Still filling out Form 77-B. Still believing in nothing except that everything is terrible. It's beautiful."

  Crane slid a tablet across the desk. The number on the screen had somehow gotten bigger.

  "We're prepared to offer you a completion bonus on top of the base rate. Full soul contract dissolution. Plus, a small additional incentive." He tapped the screen. A new document appeared. "Temporal Fold Insurance. Specifically, coverage for extracting entities trapped in chronic paradoxes. The kind that happened, say, three years ago during an unfortunate primordial essence incident."

  Jack's heart stopped. His hands tightened on the warm, damp badge until his knuckles went white. For one moment, hope hit him like a physical blow.

  "You can get Sarah out?"

  "We can provide the insurance that covers the procedure to potentially extract your former partner from her temporal situation, pending approval, subject to deductibles, with certain exclusions applying." Crane's smile was pure lawyer. "But only if Project Sunset is completed successfully."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then you continue your current trajectory. Delivering packages that hate you to people who hate you for a company that technically doesn't consider you an employee. Your soul contract continues accumulating interest. Your partner remains stuck at 2:47 AM forever. And we find another courier with the appropriate level of existential emptiness."

  The chair phased out again. This time Jack was ready for it.

  "When do I pick up the package?"

  "Now, actually. It's in the basement. Sub-level 93.5, naturally. You'll need this." Crane handed him a security badge that felt warm and slightly damp. "Fair warning—the Spirit will try to communicate with you. It will show you things. The city as it was. The community it protected. The families it helped. Don't listen. That's how we lost Courier Number Four. Started crying about 'human dignity' and 'authentic connections.' Had to let him go."

  Crane's smile flickered for just a moment, and underneath was something cold and sharp, like finding a razor in Halloween candy. "He teaches yoga now. We made sure it's hot yoga. In Phoenix. In summer. Forever. Horrible waste."

  Jack felt the temperature in the room drop five degrees.

  Jack stood to leave. The chair immediately phased out of existence permanently.

  "Oh, one more thing," Crane called out. "The storage facility in the Midwest? It's in Nebraska. Specifically, a warehouse in Nebraska. I'm told it's quite literally hell."

  "Hell is a warehouse in Nebraska?"

  Jack wasn't really surprised. Anyone who'd ever driven I-80 west out of Council Bluffs would be hard-pressed to argue otherwise.

 

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