After clearing another nightmarish floor in the Bone Cathedral, George finally pushed open a stone door expecting a deadly trap, a mutated beast, or another smug skeletal boss waiting to monologue.
Instead…
He found a **waiting room**.
With chairs.
And music.
Goblin music.
A goblin receptionist wearing glasses looked up from a stack of papers.
"Name?"
George blinked. "…What?"
"Name, please!" the goblin repeated, adjusting his tiny tie with deep bureaucratic misery.
"George," he muttered, still in combat stance.
The goblin scribbled violently. "Race?"
"Uh… human?"
"Occupation?"
"…Killer of your entire species?"
The goblin nodded like this was normal. "Wonderful. Please take a number."
George glanced at the little wheel. It read: **Serving Number 78**
His number: **4,561**
George's eye twitched.
"…Are you serious?"
"Yes! You are here at the *Goblin Department of Post-Mortem Complaints*, Division 3B!"
"What even is that!?"
