Don't Split Bills With Reapers

Bianca and I were locked in a staring contest when that metallic, grating voice echoed in our heads, demanding we make a choice.

Im the Shadow Reaper; shes the Light Reaper. Because our soul-collection quotas were essentially breaking the scales of the Underworld, some bottom-tier Domestic Goddess System decided to hijack us.

The options it presented were a joke. Choice A: Marry a billionaire but live a strictly "split-the-check" lifestyle. Choice B: Become a blue-collar girl drowning in ten million dollars of debt.

The System clearly thought wed claw each others eyes out for Choice A. It expected a display of greed, a hunger for the high life.

Instead, Bianca shoved me aside with a dramatic flourish. "Ill take A! Im a delicate flower, I cant handle manual labor. This cushy gig is mine!"

The System hissed with mechanical satisfaction. [Light Reaper has successfully bound to Scenario A. Shadow Reaper is automatically assigned the Debt-Ridden Scullery Maid script.]

Then, it whispered in my ear with a synthesized sneer: [Do you see? This is human nature. Thousands of years as partners, and she betrays you for a paycheck. Disgusting.]

I kept my mouth shut, burying the smirk that threatened to twitch at the corners of my lips.

This idiotic System didn't understand a thing. The "split-the-check" lifestyle this billionaire practiced wasn't just stingyit was psychotic. In his world, the wife pays "rent" for doing housework. If she gets pregnant and misses work, she has to reimburse him for the lost productivity.

Bianca wasn't going there to be a wife. She was going there to conduct a manual audit of his soul.

She was carrying the "Karmic Ledger," the most potent tool in the Veil. If that man tried to nickel-and-dime her for a single cent, shed shave a decade off his life for every transaction.

As for me?

I glanced at my "Debt-Ridden" script. The creditors name? Benson Caldwell. The very same billionaire.

Nice move, partner. We were hitting him from both ends. If we didn't squeeze the marrow out of this misers bones by the time we were done, wed be a disgrace to the Reapers.

...

The moment I looked down to hide my smile, the Systems voice boomed in my mind.

[Detection: Host Nina Blackwood is showing a passive attitude and non-compliant emotions. Administering Level One Electric Shock!]

Zzzzzzt

A bolt of lightning surged down my spine, exploding into my nerve endings. I gritted my teeth, clutching the hem of my shirt until my knuckles turned white.

This goddamn Domestic Goddess System. It wasn't just blind; it played dirty.

Before I could even catch my breath as the current faded, the world around me dissolved. When I opened my eyes, the cold, comforting mist of the Underworld was gone. In its place was the stench of damp rot and mildew.

Bang!

The rusted iron door of the basement was kicked open. Three men with full-sleeve tattoos swaggered in. The leader was twirling a heavy rubber truncheon in his hand.

"Nina Blackwood, right? You think you can hide? You really thought you could dodge Mr. Caldwells money?"

I narrowed my eyes as the memories of this "identity" flooded my brain. This version of me was a fresh college grad whod taken out a predatory loan to pay for her brothers terminal illness. With the interest, it had spiraled into a staggering ten million dollars.

And the man holding the leash was Benson Caldwell.

"Talk! You deaf?"

When I didn't answer, the man swung the truncheon, catching me hard on the shoulder. Pain flared, a dull throb that made my vision swim. My gaze went icy.

[Warning! Host must maintain the 'Humble Debtor' persona. Use of supernatural force is strictly prohibited. Violation will result in immediate erasure!]

The Systems red lights flashed frantically in my mind.

I took a shaky breath and recoiled, pressing my back against the moldy wall. "I I don't have the money."

"No money?" The leader laughed, pulling a contract from his jacket. "Then you pay with your life. Mr. Caldwell says the Caldwell Group is short on janitors. Sign this, and youll work off the debt. Interest is zero point five percentdaily. If you don't finish paying, you don't leave. Ever."

I scanned the document. It wasn't a labor contract; it was a bill of sale. No benefits, no insurance, abysmal wages, and every cent earned was automatically garnished. It even charged for "equipment wear and tear" and "oxygen consumption."

This was the Miser Kings handiwork, no doubt about it.

With a trembling hand, I signed the name.

The man smirked, tucking the paper away. "Smart girl. Six a.m. tomorrow, Caldwell Tower. Every minute you're late, we add ten grand to the principal."

Once they left, I leaned against the wall and exhaled a cloud of frustration. To "motivate" me, the System decided to project a live feed of the other side directly into my brain.

The screen in my mind showed a luxury sedan pulling into the most expensive estate on the outskirts of the city. My best friend, Bianca Frost, was standing in a gilded living room, looking intentionally awkward in an ill-fitting designer gown.

Sitting across from her on a leather sofa was Benson Caldwell. He held a thick stack of papers, his expression as cold as a morgue.

"Ms. Frost, if we are to be married, we need to establish the ground rules."

He tossed the documents onto the coffee table.

"This is the Pre-Nup and the Post-Marital Cost-Sharing Manifesto. One hundred and twenty-eight clauses."

Bianca stared at the sheer volume of the stack, her lip twitching. "One hundred and twenty-eight?"

"Correct." Bensons long fingers tapped the mahogany surface. "I don't support parasites. Water, electricity, groceries, HOA fees, and even toilet paper consumption will be split fifty-fifty. Since you currently have no income, I will front these costs at market interest rates. You will work off the balance through domestic labor."

Biancas eyes widened. "Work it off? What am I, the maid?"

"Ms. Frost, watch your tone," Benson frowned. "This is the epitome of modern female independence. You expected a free ride? Im afraid the Caldwell family doesn't do charity."

Bianca looked like she wanted to flip the table. She was the Light Reaper. Shed spent millennia being worshipped and feared; she wasn't built for this kind of disrespect.

However, the System shrieked: [Warning! Host must maintain the 'Gold-digging Trophy Wife' persona. Accept the agreement or face Level Two Electric Shock!]

In the feed, Biancas body stiffened. She gritted her teeth and picked up the pen.

"Fine Ill sign."

Benson offered a thin, surgical smile. "Excellent. By the way, tonights dinner ingredients cost eighteen hundred dollars. Your share is nine hundred. Ive started a ledger for you."

I watched the scene, my fingers tracing the cracks in the basement wall.

Benson Caldwell.

What a charming little accountant you are. You better pray your soul is made of sturdier stuff than your balance sheet, because were about to bankrupt you in ways you can't imagine.

The System forced me awake before dawn.

[Attention, Host! One hour until your shift begins. Please depart immediately. Work diligently to repay your debt!]

I dragged my malnourished body to the Caldwell Tower, arriving just before six. I was assigned to the maintenance department. My official title? Restroom Technician.

My supervisor was a middle-aged woman with sharp, triangular eyes that raked over me with pure disdain.

"So youre the one who owes Mr. Caldwell ten million?" She threw a sour-smelling uniform at my face. "Youve got the face of a home-wrecker, no wonder youre in deep. Get changed! Scrub every toilet on this floor. If I catch a whiff of anything unpleasant, Im docking you two hundred."

I silently picked up the uniform and went to the supply closet.

The restrooms were a disaster zoneclearly sabotaged. Water and muddy footprints covered the floor, and the stalls were unspeakable.

I grabbed the mop, and the System chimed in: [Detection: Host is undergoing labor reform. Please maintain a smile and demonstrate the positive spirit of the working class!]

I forced a grimace that looked more like a snarl and started scrubbing.

While I was on my knees, digging grime out of the tile grout, a pair of bespoke Italian leather shoes appeared in my field of vision. I looked up the sharp crease of the trousers to meet Benson Caldwells eyes.

He was flanked by a group of executives in tailored suits, all of them looking at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of their shoes.

"This is the one?" Bensons voice was like ice.

The supervisor hurried over. "Yes, Mr. Caldwell. This is her. Shes slow, but were breaking her in."

Benson gave a cold laugh. He lifted his foot and ground his sole into the patch of floor I had just cleaned, leaving a heavy, black smear.

"Typical bottom-feeder," he mused. "The stench of poverty follows her like a shadow. You can smell it from across the hall."

The executives chuckled obediently.

My knuckles turned white around the scrub brush.

[Warning: Endure! Resistance will result in mission failure!]

I took a breath. "Im sorry, Mr. Caldwell. Ill clean it up immediately."

Benson pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his fingers, and dropped it onto the wet floor.

"Clean it? You aren't even worth the tile youre kneeling on. That handkerchief cost three thousand dollars. Youve offended my sight. Add it to her tab."

He turned and swept away with his entourage.

I stared at his retreating back and flicked on my "Spectral Sight."

Above Bensons head, the golden aura of his immense wealth was being strangled by a creeping, black fog. That was karmic debt. And that debt was growing with every cruel word, every act of exploitation, visible to my eyes even if he was blind to it.

"Three thousand dollars," I whispered, picking up the handkerchief and tossing it into the bucket of filthy water. "Benson Caldwell, the Underworld is keeping receipts."

Meanwhile, the System switched the feed back to Bianca.

She was currently wearing an apron, shoveling dirt in the middle of a massive estate garden. Benson had decided that grocery costs were "inflated," and in the spirit of their "partnership," she was required to grow her own vegetables.

He was charging her interest on the seeds he "lent" her.

"Faster, Ms. Frost," the butler said, standing in the shade with a stopwatch. "Mr. Caldwell said that if the lady of the house can't handle a little yard work, she doesn't deserve to eat his rice. If this patch isn't finished today, your water bill for dinner will double."

Bianca was drenched in sweat, her manicured hands covered in mud. She was a Reaper! For three thousand years, she had carried the Staff of Mourning and the Soul-Hook. She had never touched a shovel in her life.

[Warning! Light Reapers emotional levels are critical. Murderous intent detected! Please calm down. You are a 'Virtuous Wife.' A wife is patient and hardworking!]

Bianca looked like she wanted to bite through her own tongue. She slammed the shovel into the earth.

"Fine! Ill plant it! Ill plant enough to bury all you bloodsuckers!" she screamed internally, though her face wore a tight, pained smile. "Of course, Butler. Ill work harder."

That night, Benson came home. He sat at the head of the dining table with a wagyu steak and a glass of vintage red. In front of Bianca sat a bowl of plain, watery noodles.

"Todays ingredient budget was exceeded," Benson said, slicing his steak. "Since you have no income, you get the basics. The noodles are fifty dollarsafter all, I employ a Michelin-starred chef, and his labor isn't cheap."

Bianca looked at the bowl. Her stomach let out a pathetic growl.

"Benson could I at least have an egg?" she asked, her voice trembling with forced humility.

Benson stopped eating and looked at her.

"An egg? Ms. Frost, you need to learn contentment. Do you know what an organic egg costs these days? Five dollars. Add in the preparation, the gas, and the wear on the plate, and thats twenty dollars. Do you have twenty dollars?"

Bianca was silent. She had no money. Her Underworld currency was useless here, and the System had locked her powers.

"Then shut up and eat your noodles," Benson huffed. "And wash the dishes when you're done. Don't use more than three drops of soap. Water flow stays at level one. Otherwise, theres a fine."

Bianca lowered her head, shoving the overpriced noodles into her mouth. Tears hit the broth, making it saltier.

She was screaming in my head: [Nina! Nina! Im going to kill him! Im going to drag him to the eighteenth level of hell and loop his torment on repeat!]

I replied from my cramped janitors bunk: [Patience. Let him play his games. The harder he plays, the harder he falls.]

I was hungry too, but I was looking at the shredded documents Id scavenged from Bensons trash earlier. They contained the Caldwell Groups darkest secrets.

Bensons cruelty didn't just persist; it escalated.

A week later, it was the annual Metropolis Charity Gala. Bianca was required to attend, but Benson refused to provide a dress.

"Youre my wife, you represent the Caldwell name. But youre the one wearing the clothes, so you pay for them."

Penniless, Bianca was forced to wear a gown shed fashioned out of an old maids uniform.

I was hauled to the gala as "temporary help." My job wasn't serving drinks. I was a human side-table.

The ballroom was a sea of gold and silk. I was dressed in a cheap, high-slit dress, forced to kneel on the plush carpet next to Bensons VIP booth, my arms raised high, holding a heavy silver tray laden with expensive wine and fruit.

My knees throbbed. My arms were numb. But the System warned me: one wobble, one slip, and Id get a Level One shock.

Benson sat on the leather sofa, his arm around a woman dripping in diamonds and haute couture. It was his "Untouchable Muse," the famous starlet Serena Valentine.

"Benson, is this really your new wife?" Serena pointed at Bianca, giggling behind her hand. "She looks like a beggar. How embarrassing for you."

Benson glanced at Bianca with total indifference. "Shes a roommate I share a contract with. She needs discipline. She thought marrying into money meant a free ride. She needs to learn how hard it is to earn a living."

Bianca gripped her skirt until her knuckles turned white. The guests whispered and snickered.

Serenas eyes then fell on me.

"Oh, this tray is so unique," she purred, reaching out to take a glass from my tray. As her fingers touched the crystal, she intentionally flicked her wrist.

Splash

A full glass of red wine soaked my face and chest.

"Oops! My hand slipped!" Serena cried out theatrically. "Why were you holding it so unstable? Youve ruined my view. Can you even afford the dry cleaning for this atmosphere?"

Before I could speak, Bensons boot connected with my shoulder.

"Useless!"

I tumbled backward, the tray clattering as everything shattered on the floor. Benson stood over me, pointing a finger.

"This carpet is handmade Persian silk. This section alone is worth fifty thousand. Add Serenas distress fee and the price of the wine, and thats two million. Put it on her tab."

I lay on the glass-strewn floor, my palms sliced open. I looked up, staring straight at Benson.

At that moment, Bianca broke. She lunged forward, trying to help me up. "This is too much! She did it on purpose!"

Slap!

Bensons backhand sent Bianca reeling.

"Silence!" He stepped on Biancas hand as she tried to push herself up. "In this house, money is the law. Do you have money? No? Then stay on your knees."

[Warning! Light Reaper is attempting to attack the Male Lead. Initiating Body Control Protocol: Kneel and Apologize!]

Biancas body jerked, her limbs locking into a forced, robotic motion. Slowly, she was forced down until she was kneeling before Benson and Serena. Her eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated humiliation.

"Im sorry," she forced out through clenched teeth.

Serena smiled triumphantly. "Benson, you're so masculine. A real man of principle."

Benson looked down at both of us. "Remember this. This is the fate of the poor. You want dignity? Try being born rich in your next life."

The Systems voice chimed in:

[Ding! New Mission: Reform Benson Caldwell. Make him feel the 'Warmth and Inclusion of a Home.' Reward: $500 debt reduction.]

Bianca and I locked eyes. In that split second, we saw the same thing: an ocean of blood.

Reform him?

Fine. Wed give him a "warmth" hed never forget.

After the gala, Benson used the "contract violation" as an excuse to strip Bianca of her last few pieces of jewelry, including a ring left by her mother. I was thrown into the damp, dark basement of the villa for "reflection."

But in that darkness, I smelled something familiar.

The scent of restless souls.

I opened my Spectral Sight. In the walls and beneath the floorboards, I saw them: distorted spirits sealed in concrete. The Caldwell fortune wasn't built on genius; it was built on a foundation of bones. No wonder he needed to siphoning our luckhe was running out of his own.

Benson Caldwell, your invoice is due.