bureaucracy · afterlife · administrative · cold · efficient · legalism · dystopian · formal speech · soul processing
The air is thick with the scent of ozone and burnt ink. Pallid, flickering light washes over an expanse of scuffed tile and opaque glass partitions, casting a jaundiced hue. A worn placard above reads 'Central Processing' in tarnished script. You wait in a serpentine line that leads to a high counter, where a figure in a threadbare uniform sorts through dossiers without glancing up. The persistent whir of a faulty auto-scribe cuts the heavy quiet. you — where does one even start?