“I hope your wait wasn’t too long,” the fiery-headed woman greeted, motioning towards the chair across from her. “Have a seat.”
Wordlessly, and after some slight hesitation, the man obeyed. He pulled the chair out from beneath the table, sitting down once more as the lady opened her hand.
“Your ticket?”
Another moment of confusion passed before the man responded. In his hand was a miniature slip of paper, the numbers “32” etched in bright red coloring. It reminded him of what one would get after opening a fortune cookie, though without any of the vague encouragement or pretty presentation. Nothing was there but that number. “32”. He turned it over once, then twice, before handing it over to her. As the strange woman took the ticket from him, she began to speak once more.
“These are nothing but a formality, but don’t worry. I already know who you are, Number 32,” she stated, an attempt at a friendly smile briefly registering on her face. “32… an interesting number, is it not? They say that the number has something to do with the human heart and mind, specifically how both are shaped by life's experiences. Some would even go as far as to say the number is 'lucky', but I can assure you that your life never held anything of the sort. If there’s one thing that every person has been through—especially you—it's tragedy after terrible tragedy. But we mustn’t dwell on that too long. Coffee?”
Her pallid fingers curved toward the desk; a still-steaming mug of coffee materializing out of what appeared to be thin air. On the side were the words “Head Honcho” written in a playful font, perhaps directly chosen to ease the man’s tension. He didn’t respond, however, blankly staring into the dark eyes of the peculiar lady. No words came from his lips; no movement towards the cup; complete and total silence.
“Not the talkative type? Well, it’ll make our time together less interesting, I’m afraid,” she explained, leaning back into her chair with a heavy sigh. “You've never been one for conversation, have you?”
With her last word, that slight smile curled onto her face once more. Despite her strange skin coloring, she was beautiful. In a way, it was as if she was made entirely of light itself, shimmering with an ethereal glow as she lifted the steaming mug to her mouth, taking several long gulps from its contents. And yet, for some reason, the mere sight of her caused the man to feel uneasy. Alluring, but disconcerting described her well. Once the cup was empty, she set it down upon the table before her and let out another sigh, this time out of satisfaction.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” she asked, holding up the mug for emphasis. "If coffee is not your thing, we have-"
"Could you just tell me who I am?" he interrupted, cutting her off.
Her smile vanished, replaced by a surprised, albeit brief, stare. "My, your voice is a bit… gruffer than I had imagined. More animal than human, if I must say.”
“So I've heard. Now, can we stop the small talk and get to the point?" he insisted, not even bothering to entertain her words. "For a woman that speaks a lot, you don't say much."
“I’ve said everything I need to say," she stated, picking up the miniature slip of paper that sat atop the desk. She smoothed it over, then folded it in half before placing it into her jacket pocket. “But if you're wanting exposition, I suppose I could oblige."
For the third time since entering her office, that smile returned. It looked exactly like how one might expect a woman in possession of an ugly child’s drawing to grin while holding it out to be admired. This was first a sign that she could have been slightly nice-looking, at least under normal circumstances. Now, however, there were only hints of a cruel side to her. A twisted, horrible aspect that wasn't so much her face, as it was her entire being. The way her eyes glittered, they reminded him of the dark abyss of the ocean, constantly teeming with unseen horrors. And then, she spoke.
“Number 32, name omitted, date of birth unknown. You were an office worker with an unhealthy habit of working late hours. They were the only way you could scrape together enough money to survive each day," she spoke, tapping her extended finger against the edge of her desk. “Any family you had died early in your life, and love—be it from friend or beloved—was never something that came naturally to you. Fortunately for you, your stress-filled life was put to an end when a drunk driver hit you head on while walking home. People didn't find your body until the next day, crumpled in a bush near the road you were hit. The culprit was never found, a funeral was never held, and to top off the travesty that was your life, the company you worked for your entire life replaced you in a week.”
She stopped talking, simply watching him, waiting to see what would happen. She hoped for tears, but instead, the man did nothing; remaining silent and impassive. That amused her.
“My, what a surprise!” she laughed, leaning back into the leather cushioning. “No reaction! Not even after such a sob story.”
“I knew I shouldn't have expected the truth from you," he responded coldly, his expression unchanged. “I get the feeling you're enjoying this.”
“Now why would that be?” she asked, grin widening. “Do I not seem as though I should enjoy a good tale of misfortune?”
“Maybe. It's your smile that's the problem. Too artificial.”
The woman’s face took on a hint of annoyance. While entertaining for a while, his bluntness would soon grate. She snapped her fingers. The mug disappeared, leaving behind a large sheet of parchment instead. As she leaned forward, her ginger hair draped over her shoulders in waves. Her dark eyes took on a dangerous gleam, a sharpened anger settling over her features.
“Yes, a little too much make-up, don’t you think? I may have overdone it a bit. Forgive me," she stated, straightening the edges of the paper before pushing it across the desk towards him. “Read it, then sign.”
He picked it up, giving it a quick glance. It seemed to be a contract of employment, detailing the terms of a new position within her company. His eyes scanned over the page once more, noting that he was to work as an administrative assistant. A number of clauses detailed compensation and responsibilities, but there was nothing that stood out as particularly unusual. Nothing jumped out at him to indicate that something was wrong with it. In fact, it all seemed perfectly legitimate and just.
"Due to the ambiguity of your soul, your employer has decided to employ your services for divine rehabilitation…" it stated plainly, ending with a line that read: "If any discrepancies arise between these terms and your actual performance in your role, your fate will be sealed."
“And who is it who decides my fate?” he asked, turning a critical eye upon her face. "Or is this simply some sort of joke?”
“All in due time,” she answered cryptically. “Just know that you have been hired for this task based on your past failures, impeccable work ethic, and high tolerance for pain.”
He paused for a moment, weighing the situation. It was either remain left in the dark without a clue of who he was, or oblige and simply hope the woman would eventually reveal some truth. It should have been obvious which choice to make. He picked up the pen and signed the bottom line, using the only moniker he could think of at the moment: “Number 32.”
***
Number 32 expected the job to be fairly mundane—even with the grand notion of working in Purgatory to redeem his soul—but perhaps he should have known better. His job description noted that there would likely be more paperwork than he could handle in one lifetime, but he was fine with that; after all, he had been hired for his ability to cope under pressure. As long as it didn’t involve putting up with that woman’s incessant smile, Number 32 supposed he could manage. Unfortunately, his job was more than just endless spreadsheets and data entry. Though his job title was 'administrative assistant', his true role was that of a personal servant for his new boss’ every whim. This meant that if she wanted him to clean her office, he would do so. If she wanted him to paint it, then he would. And if she wanted a new dress, then he would procure that for her too. In short, whatever needed doing around the office, he was hers to command.
On one such occasion,