Sitting in a minuscule white-walled office, hardly any bigger than a broom closet, Darren huddled over his computer screen, ogling the contents intently. After a moment, the door opened and he found himself interrupted.

  “Are you coming to answer Mr Proctal’s questions, Darren?” asked the receptionist.

  “Why can’t you do it?” Darren snapped back.

  “It’s just not my job. Plus I know you always usually have a meeting with the clients prior to them seeing Dr Paisley,” the receptionist responded.

  “Piss off, Rachel, I don’t have time for your garbage today!” Darren said, clearly in a foul mood. “You look terrible, by the way – why are you even here if you look that bad?”

  Rachel dipped her head, embarrassed by the comment. Darren knew of Rachel’s illness, but that never kept him from being toxic in his comments; empathy was not in his playbook.

  Darren continued staring at the screen, watching the unfolding saga in real time. The intercom beside him buzzed. He ignored it as he leered.

  “What kind of a freak has dinner with a filthy mutt?” he said to himself.

  The intercom buzzed again, but this time he picked up, blasting Rachel at the other end of the line. “I told you I’m busy! Stop bothering me and do your damn job you useless typist!” he squawked.

  Rachel looked up at Dr Paisley and shook her head.

  “No luck. He’s been in a terrible mood today; he won’t leave that office, even to harass the clients,” Rachel said.

  Dr Paisley rolled her eyes, sick of the constant antics of the office’s nepo hire.

  “If I had my way…” she trailed off as she stomped towards Darren’s office.

  She knocked loudly and waited for a moment, starting to open the door when it was yanked out of her hand.

  “What, Rachel?!” Darren shouted, realising his mistake quickly after the words left his mouth.

  “I need to see you immediately,” Dr Paisley said curtly.

  “I just need to close my computer,” Darren said, turning back to his desk – but before he had a chance, Dr Paisley had grabbed his forearm and was leading him out into the hallway.

  The two disappeared into the doctor’s office, the door slamming behind them.

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  The intercom rang at Rachel’s desk. “This might be a while, Rachel – could you please hold my calls?” Dr Paisley requested.

  “No problems,” said Rachel.

  The clock had just ticked over to midday and, knowing there were no scheduled appointments until later that afternoon, Rachel stood up from her desk and tiptoed down the hall into Darren’s office.

  “Let’s see what he’s been doing all day” she said to herself.

  Rachel entered his office and looked at the monitor.

  It seemed Darren had been playing Zombie Planet 1995. Rachel paused. “Why would he be playing that game at work?” she wondered aloud.

  After a moment, she noticed the game wasn’t paused.

  “He’s not playing a game,” she said to herself, “he’s watching someone’s PM file!”

  Stygian Synapses, at any given time, had thousands of games – or Post Mortem files – running as their clients’ virtual afterlife. While the games were encrypted and privacy-ensured, it appeared Darren had managed to bypass the system’s security and was actively watching a client’s afterlife.

  Rachel took control of the mouse and clicked into the game’s settings.

  Server 7631-24 – Alan Thatcher, the file read.

  Puzzled, Rachel closed the settings menu and hovered the cursor over the avatar Darren had been watching closely, wondering why a Mr Alan Thatcher would be playing as a young female.

  Kelly Brass – Unemployed – 26 appeared over the player’s head, confirming that this indeed wasn’t Mr Thatcher.

  Rachel stepped back from the desk and pulled out her smartphone, snapping a short video of the screen before scurrying out and back to her desk.

  As she made a beeline down the hallway, Darren and Dr Paisley emerged from the office. Darren shot Rachel a cold glance, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at her as she sat back down in her chair.

  “Where were you?” he barked at Rachel.

  “I needed to go to the bathroom, I’m not feeling that great today,” Rachel replied.

  “She can leave her desk whenever she pleases, Darren, and she also doesn’t have to answer to you,” Dr Paisley said, nodding at Rachel with a small smile of solidarity.

  “Pfft!” Darren tutted, shaking his head as he strode back to his office.

  Rachel, shaken by the confrontation, coughed into a tissue, a blot of blood showing through as she held it to her mouth.

  “Rachel, are you sure you want to be at work?” Dr Paisley asked. “You know you’re always welcome here, but working so close to this dimwit can’t be helping your condition.”

  “Thanks Sarah. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cause a fuss. I’m not feeling great today, but I really hate being at home alone, especially since Felix ran away,” Rachel said, her pallid skin and puffy eyes relaying the extent of her illness.

  “Okay Rachel, but please, if I can do anything let me know,” Sarah responded.

  “Actually, I’ve got something I need to show you,” Rachel said.

  Dr Paisley started to speak when her phone started ringing. She looked at the screen and apologised: “Sorry, I have to take this – can you give me ten minutes?”

  “Sure,” Rachel agreed, nodding as Sarah turned away into her office.

  Just down the hallway, out of sight, Darren hovered, waiting for Dr Paisley’s departure.

  As soon as her office door closed, he sprung into action, slamming his fists onto the reception desk.

  “I can tell you were in my office – you had better have not been on my computer!” he hissed, stale-coffee-scented spit spraying from his mouth with every plosive.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Rachel timidly. “I just went to the bathroom,” she lied.

  Darren squinted back at Rachel with a hideous look of disdain. “If I find out you were in there, heaven help you.”