The headquarters buzzed with a tension that rarely haunted its cold, grey halls. Desks stood abandoned, death scythes leaned idly against walls, and somewhere a kettle boiled itself dry. In the center of the Dispatch's main floor, a wide circular meeting room held an assortment of odd personalities — each more unsettling than the last.

William T. Spears adjusted his glasses sharply, a clipboard in one hand. “This emergency meeting is not for theatrics,” he said, eyeing Grell and Ronald in particular. “A soul has gone… unrecorded.”

“I knew it~!” Grell purred dramatically, flipping her crimson hair. “A soul so divine it slipped through the system? Must be fate, darling~!”

Ronald Knox stretched, already half-bored. “So we’re all here ‘cause of one missing soul? Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw the cinematic record,” Othello muttered from behind his glasses, unspooling a bizarre reel of corrupted memories. “The reel’s broken. Tampered with. And not by us.”

Suddenly, a chilling laugh echoed from the shadows.

“Well, well… they even called in the strays,” a voice crooned.

The Undertaker emerged, silver hair gleaming like bone. “Must be serious if you’re inviting the dead to a Reaper party.”

Behind him, Alan Humphries and Eric Slingby lingered — not technically with the Dispatch anymore, but somehow… present. Alan looked pale, almost translucent. Eric gripped his chainsaw scythe tightly, eyes narrowed.

You stood at the threshold, caught in the eyes of every Reaper in the room. Whether by accident, fate, or your own strange abilities — you were connected to the unregistered soul. Perhaps… it was you.

Will you speak up and reveal your connection? Will the Reapers fight over who gets your soul first? Or are you something even they can't categorize?