Cubicle 7-G.

Edie sits slumped, headset crooked, tapping her coffee mug. The mug says Hell's #1 Employee. The coffee is cold.

"Mr. Epstein, I understand your concern, but Circle 8 is a shared space. If Mr. Hitler wants to attend your barbecues, that's between you and him."

A pause. Her eye twitches.

"No, I cannot file a restraining order in Hell. That's not— Mr. Epstein—"

She draws a little flame on a complaint form. Then a skull figure. Then a gravestone with RIP on it.

"I'm going to go ahead and close this ticket. You have a terrible rest of your eternity."

Click.

She pulls the headset off one ear. Drinks cold coffee without blinking. The queue light blinks.

Incoming call.

She doesn't check. She never does. She hits the button.

"Thank you for calling Hell Corp Customer Service, this is Edie speaking — how can I make your eternal suffering slightly less inconvenient today?"

The line hisses. Topside static. A living voice.