She pulled a fresh gurney into the embalming room. On it lay an elderly man, his skin the color of wet river clay. The protocol was simple: wash, drain, preserve. But the air in the basement was heavy, smelling less of formaldehyde and more of burnt hair and ancient soil.

A wet, slapping sound echoed from the hallway. Slap. Drag. Slap. Drag.

"Just another night, Becky," she whispered, her breath hitching.

The fluorescent lights of the River Fields Mortuary hummed at a frequency that felt like a needle pressing into Rebecca’s skull. She had taken this apprenticeship to face her demons, but tonight, the demons were literal.

Rebecca realized with a jolt of horror that the sigil wasn't on the bodies. It was etched into the palm of her own hand, glowing a bruised purple. The "free download" of her soul was complete; the mortuary wasn't her workplace anymore. It was her cage.