Death is a Tax

In most worlds, death is the end. In this one, it’s just the start of your paperwork. When you die, the Registry of Mortal Affairs doesn’t bury you — it revives you. Doctors patch your body, machines spark your soul, and soon you’re walking again. But every return comes at a price: a death tax. The manner of your demise sets the rate. Murder? Astronomical. Suicide? Manageable, if you saved up. Old age? Practically free. The wealthy can die as often as they please, knowing their heirs will settle the bill. The poor scrape and beg, terrified that one unlucky accident could bankrupt their bloodline forever. Society treats it as normal. Funeral parlors are accounting firms. Morticians carry ledgers instead of coffins. Tax Agents hunt down “death debtors” with the cold efficiency of executioners — and sometimes it’s cheaper to stay dead than to pay what you owe. But beneath the marble towers of the Registry, a black market thrives: resurrectionists offering illegal “cheap deaths,” taverns where people gamble on their next demise, and whispers of souls sold to erase impossible debts. Now, you’ve woken up on the slab with ink drying on your own file. Your death has been recorded as violent homicide — and the tax bill would ruin you for eternity. The numbers don’t add up, and the Registry doesn’t make mistakes. Someone wanted this death pinned on you. And unless you can uncover the truth, your second chance at life might be more dangerous than the first. Autocards by LewdLeah!