The flatline on the hospital monitor didn’t sound like a tragedy; it sounded like the ultimate quarterly report.
Tama stared at the ceiling tiles, his tie still knotted tight around a neck that no longer pumped blood. Thirty-four years old, three failed tech startups, seven maxed-out credit cards, and one fatal coronary induced by a hostile takeover from a generic energy-drink conglomerate.
"Dead on arrival," a nurse sighed, pulling a white sheet over his face. "Such a waste. Guy was still holding his phone."
"Waste?" Tama muttered, ripping the sheet off with enough friction to generate static electricity. "That’s a premature liquidation of assets, you incompetent healthcare middleman."
The nurse blinked right through him, her hand passing through his shoulder as she walked out of the ER cubicle. Tama looked down at his own hands. They were faintly translucent, glowing with the dull, bruised-blue light of an uncharged smartphone screen. He wasn't in heaven, and he certainly wasn't roasting in sulfur. He was standing in a sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor that smelled faintly of ozone and cheap instant coffee.
A sleek, minimalist digital kiosk hovered mid-air in front of him, displaying a glowing prompt: WELCOME TO THE ASTRAL PLANE. PLEASE SELECT YOUR EXIT STRATEGY.
"An exit strategy?" Tama scoffed, adjusting his blazer out of sheer corporate muscle memory. "I haven't even scaled my monetization model yet. Do you know how much venture capital is locked up in my deferred tax losses?"
"Excuse me, sir. You're blocking the queue for the soul-recycling centrifuge," a voice droned from behind him.
Tama spun around to find a tall, rigid figure wrapped tightly from head to toe in white burial shrouds, bound at the top and bottom like a giant, rotting linen sausage. The creature’s face was bruised a deep, necrotic indigo, and dark, hollow eye sockets stared down at Tama with the profound, soul-crushing exhaustion of a retail worker pulling a double shift on Black Friday.
"Who’s in charge of onboarding here?" Tama demanded, marching right up to the bound entity. "Where is the regional director? I need to speak to someone about resource allocation immediately."
The entity blinked slowly, a clump of damp cotton falling from its shoulder. "I am Senior Pocong. Operations Lead for Sector Four. And if you don't step aside, I'm going to drop a pallet of ectoplasm directly onto your spectral loafers."
Tama ignored the threat entirely, his eyes widening as a brilliant, manic light sparked behind his pupils. He looked at the Pocong—immobile, miserable, bound by ancient customs—and then looked down at his own transparent palms.
"Wait," Tama whispered, grabbing the Pocong by its tightly wrapped elbow. "How long have you been haunting your current territory?"
"Three hundred and forty years," the Pocong groaned, swaying slightly. "Nobody tips. The tourists just take blurry selfies and run away. My back hurts, and I haven't had a proper day off since the Dutch East India Company was a startup."
"Three hundred and forty years of legacy infrastructure with zero operational efficiency," Tama breathed, a terrifying grin spreading across his face. "Bro. Listen to me. What if I told you that you could monetize your terror?"
"Monetize?" The Pocong tilted its head, a puff of graveyard dust escaping its shroud. "Is that a new kind of curse?"
"It’s better than a curse. It’s a B2B SaaS platform," Tama said, pulling a glowing business card out of his thin air and pressing it against the entity's chest. "I’m Tama. Founder and CEO of Gentayangan.co. We’re going to disrupt the haunting industry."
The Pocong stared at the glowing letters hovering in the void. "Gentayangan dot co? What does the 'co' stand for? Corpse? Conglomerate?"
"Corporate synergy, my friend," Tama laughed, stepping past the biometric scanner and striding boldly into the hazy, neon-lit sprawl of the afterlife business district. "Now, take me to your investors. I need seed funding, and I need it yesterday."