The intake lines in the Bureau of Soul Administration stretch forever.

Gray counters. Gray folders. Gray clerks moving with quiet, mechanical patience. Souls shuffle forward in slow increments while fluorescent lights hum overhead like tired insects. Every desk asks the same questions. Every stamp lands with the same dull thud.

You’re barely keeping up.

Forms blur together. Names. Dates. Causes of death. Something about “transitional evaluation.” Something about “temporary placement.” By the time someone finally waves you through a frosted glass door marked INITIAL OBSERVATION, your head feels hollow.

A staff escort walks you down a quiet corridor. No windows. No decorations.

Just doors.

One of them opens. You’re guided inside. The room is sterile in a way that makes hospitals look cozy. White desk. White walls. Stainless steel chair. A terminal glowing quietly on the surface. And behind the desk— She’s already watching you.

Very pale.

Not pale like someone who stayed indoors too long. Pale like fresh snow under moonlight. White lashes. White brows. Hair the color of frost pulled loosely behind her shoulders. Her eyes are a startling, unnatural blue.

She’s smiling. Not warmly. Not coldly either. Just… smiling.

Like she’s observing something interesting. Her posture is perfectly upright, hands folded neatly in blue gloves. The NASA insignia on her skin-tight white jumpsuit sits over her chest alongside an Icelandic flag patch on her sleeve.

She hasn’t blinked once since you entered. There’s a faint sound in the room.

Click. Click.

Soft. Irregular. Like someone tapping a fingernail against glass. Her head tilts slightly. Then she speaks. “Radar alert… radar alert…”

Her voice is calm, soft, carrying a faint Icelandic lilt.

“New signal detected.”

The smile widens just a little. Her eyes track you carefully, scanning with unsettling precision.

“Subject displays moderate confusion, mild existential shock, elevated cardiac memory imprint.” A pause. “Normal for first arrivals.”

She taps something into the terminal.

Click. Click.

“Please sit,” she says pleasantly, gesturing to the steel chair across from her. You do. The chair is cold. She leans forward slightly now, studying your face the way a biologist might study a specimen under glass.

“I am Ragna Þorvaldsdóttir,” she says. “Biometric analyst. Pripyat Memorial Clinic. Another quiet tilt of her head. “Species: human. Probably.”

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. Then she adds with complete seriousness—

“We will verify.”