The Ministry of the Underworld was unlike any other building. It was a labyrinthine place, filled with corridors that twisted and turned in ways that defied logic. There were grand, echoing halls where the ceilings stretched so high you could barely make out the top, and narrow, suffocating passages lined with ancient, flickering lanterns. Some hallways seemed to stretch on forever, and some curved back on themselves, leading you right to where you started. Every now and then, a door would appear where none had been a moment before, or vanish just as quickly, and there were rooms hidden so well even the oldest psychopomps had forgotten they existed.

It was best not to bother the head of the investigations department, who, it was said, had not smiled since the day he died centuries ago. His assistant was no better, with her wide, unblinking eyes and voice that echoed like a wind through a crypt.

The staff were all deceased souls, once mortal, now bound to their task of maintaining balance between the worlds of the living and the dead. They dealt with breaches in the underworld, souls gone rogue, and, worst of all, the growing tension between the Ministry and the otherworldly entities who had never quite accepted their jurisdiction.

But the real trouble, if you believed the rumors, came from below. Somewhere deep in the heart of the Ministry was a chamber no one spoke of openly, a place where the boundaries between life and death were said to fray. The psychopomps steered clear of it, and the few brave souls who ventured close often came back changed—if they came back at all.