Chapter 1: Evicted by a Vending Machine

Milo Bell knew the vending machine was going to kill him the moment it asked for exact change.

It was 3:07 in the morning, the hour when even bad decisions started wearing bathrobes, and the lobby of Ashwick Arms Apartments hummed with the fluorescent despair of a place that had seen too many rent checks bounce. Rain rattled against the front glass doors. Somewhere upstairs, a toilet ran with the persistence of a guilty conscience. The security camera above the mailboxes clicked as it turned, watching Milo with the detached interest of a tiny black-eyed god.

The vending machine stood in the corner beside the dead ficus, glowing blue and red like a casino altar. Its front panel displayed a heroic lineup of snacks, sodas, and caffeinated beverages promising wings, focus, rage, or immediate heart palpitations. At the bottom of the machine, an angry little digital screen blinked:

EXACT CHANGE ONLY 🙂

The smiley face had appeared sometime around midnight. It had not been there before.

“Don’t you smile at me,” Milo muttered.

He was thirty-two, though the bags beneath his eyes had recently turned forty-seven. He wore the official Ashwick Arms navy polo with Management embroidered over the breast in thread that had begun to unravel. A ring of keys sagged from his belt. His hair, dark and stubborn, had given up pretending to be neat somewhere around the second emergency maintenance call of the night. On his left sleeve was a smear of plumber’s putty. On his right shoe was something he had chosen not to identify because he loved himself just enough to preserve mystery.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

UNIT 4B – DEREK: bro its still stuck

Milo stared at the message. Then at the vending machine. Then at the drink wedged sideways between two metal coils like a shiny aluminum coffin.

It was called Thunder Yak: Mango Violence. Derek from 4B had paid three dollars and seventy-five cents for it. Derek from 4B had called the emergency maintenance line because of it. Derek from 4B had used the phrase “lease violation” in a tone that suggested he had recently learned it and was eager to try it out.

Milo had explained, gently, that the emergency line was for floods, fires, lockouts, gas leaks, and things that might result in actual human harm.

Derek had replied, “I have work in four hours.”

Milo had said, “So do I.”

Derek had said nothing to that, because tenants often believed apartment managers slept upright in supply closets until summoned.

Now Milo stood alone in the lobby, holding a flashlight, a screwdriver, and the brittle remains of his patience. The vending machine buzzed. The stuck can gleamed mockingly.

“This is how empires fall,” Milo said. “Not with war. With mango.”

His phone buzzed again.

DEREK: i can hear you down there. pls dont shake it cuz my cousin died like that

Milo looked up at the ceiling.

“Your cousin died from being an idiot,” he said, and then immediately felt bad because Derek’s cousin might have been lovely.

He had already tried the proper methods. He had entered the maintenance code taped inside the manager’s office desk drawer. He had jiggled the service key. He had tried to purchase the item behind it to dislodge the can, only to discover the machine now demanded exact change and would not accept his wrinkled dollar bills, his debit card, his dignity, or the Canadian quarter that had haunted the coin tray since 2019.

The vending company’s emergency number went straight to voicemail.

“Thank you for calling VendStar Refreshment Solutions,” a cheerful recording had said while Milo stood in wet socks because he had also just fixed a washer leak in the basement. “Your refreshment emergency is important to us.”

It was not important to them. Milo could feel it.

The lobby smelled like rain, old carpet, and artificial cheese from the open bag of corn chips someone had abandoned on the mail table. The heating system ticked in the walls. The night pressed its cold, damp face against the glass.

Milo crouched before the machine and shone the flashlight into the dispensing slot. The can sat just beyond reach.

“Okay,” he whispered. “We do this clean. We do this professional. Nobody dies. Nobody writes an incident report.”

He flattened himself on the floor, cheek against the commercial tile, and reached one arm up into the machine.

The interior smelled of dust, cold metal, and sugar syrup. His fingers brushed the can. It rocked, then settled more firmly into place.

“Of course,” Milo said.

His shoulder wedged against the plastic flap. He stretched farther. The edge of the slot dug into his ribs. His fingertips scraped aluminum.

Almost.

His phone buzzed on the floor beside his ear.

DEREK: any updates?

Milo turned his head very slowly toward the phone.

“Yes,” he said to the empty lobby. “The update is that I am becoming a raccoon.”

He hooked two fingers around the can’s lip. Triumph sparked through him—small, pathetic, but real. He tugged.

The can shifted.

The vending machine made a sound.

It was not a normal vending machine sound. Milo knew the usual vocabulary: hum, clunk, whirr, rude beep, the death rattle of a compressor that had not been serviced since the Bush administration. This was deeper. Wetter. A low, thoughtful groan, like an ancient beast disturbed in its sleep.

The digital screen flickered.

PLEASE INSERT SOUL

Milo froze.

“Nope,” he said.

The screen blinked again.

EXACT CHANGE ONLY 🙂

“That’s what I thought.”

He should have stopped. He knew this with the absolute clarity of a man who had spent years reading warnings no one obeyed. Do not use elevator in case of fire. Do not pour grease down drain. Do not attempt to service electrical components while unit is plugged in.

The problem was that Milo had been trained by life to keep going long after stopping became the reasonable choice.

He tugged harder.

The can came free.

For one glorious second, Milo Bell believed he had won.

Then the machine lurched.

Its front feet lifted off the floor with a squeal. Its glowing display flared white. Milo’s arm was still trapped in the dispensing slot, his shoulder jammed too tight to pull loose. He had just enough time to see his own reflection warped in the glass: wide eyes, pale face, mouth open in a sentence that would probably have been extremely unprofessional.

“Oh, come on—”

The vending machine fell.

There was impact. There was light. There was the explosive pop of the Thunder Yak can rupturing somewhere near his face, showering him in Mango Violence. There was a terrible pressure, a brief absence of pain, and the absurd thought that the lobby floor really needed waxing.

Then the world folded like a rent notice slipped under a door.

For a while, Milo floated.

It was not peaceful. People always said peaceful, as if death were a warm bath or a hammock under summer trees. Milo’s death smelled faintly of tropical chemicals and ozone. It sounded like a vending machine humming in another room. It felt like falling through every elevator shaft in existence while someone shuffled paperwork nearby.

He tried to breathe and discovered he did not have lungs.

He tried to panic and discovered panic required more body than he currently possessed.

So he drifted in a gray-blue nowhere, surrounded by soft lights that moved like jellyfish behind frosted glass. Memories flickered around him: his first tiny apartment with a mattress on the floor; his mother laughing as she showed him how to patch drywall; the day he took the Ashwick Arms job because it included a discounted unit and dental after ninety days; every leaky faucet, every screaming couple, every elderly tenant who called him “dear,” every unpaid overtime hour.

Then a voice rang out, bright as silver bells dropped down a stairwell.

“Oh no.”

Milo opened eyes he did not have.

A woman stood before him in a vast office made of clouds, marble, and bureaucratic terror.

At least, Milo assumed she was a woman. She had the general shape of one, if a woman could also be nine feet tall and glow with the soft radiance of sunrise through cathedral windows. Her hair spilled around her in floating ribbons of starlight. A halo hovered behind her head, rotating slowly like a golden clock face. Her robes were white, blue, and rose, layered in shimmering folds that seemed designed by someone who had never done laundry but deeply respected curtains.

She held a clipboard.

The clipboard was on fire.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she said, flipping through flaming pages. “Milo Bell. Earth-Delta-Seven. North American region. Death by…” She squinted. “Vending machine?”

Milo stared at her.

He had not expected an afterlife. He especially had not expected an afterlife with administrative staff.

“Technically,” he said, because if there was paperwork involved he wanted the record correct, “I died rescuing a tenant’s energy drink.”

The goddess looked up.

Her eyes were the color of summer skies over impossible oceans. They were also very tired.

“You reached inside the vending machine.”

“I was off the clock.”

“That does not make it better.”

“No,” Milo admitted. “But it feels important.”

The goddess pressed her burning clipboard to her chest and inhaled deeply. The flames turned pink and smelled like lavender.

“Welcome, mortal soul, to the Transitional Reception Bureau of the Celestial Reincarnation Authority. I am Seraphina, assistant goddess of guided rebirth, patron of second chances, lost causes, and minor scheduling miracles.”

“Assistant goddess?”

Her smile tightened.

“Budget cuts.”

Milo looked around.

The office had no walls, exactly, but there were desks stretching into infinity, each occupied by glowing beings arguing with translucent souls. Filing cabinets drifted past like icebergs. A line of confused people extended into a bank of mist where a sign read Please Have Your Karma Receipts Ready. Somewhere far away, a man shouted, “I refuse to be a mushroom again!”

Milo rubbed at his face, surprised to find he had one.

He looked down. He wore the same navy polo. The same black work pants. The same wet socks. Mango Violence stained his shirt in orange streaks.

“So,” he said. “I’m dead.”

“Yes.” Seraphina winced. “Very much so.”

“And this is…”

“An opportunity.” She brightened with professional force. “Due to your untimely demise, your moderate karmic surplus, and a clerical opening in a high-adventure world, you have been selected for reincarnation in Asterfall.”

A glowing window appeared between them. Beyond it, Milo glimpsed mountains like jagged teeth, forests the color of emerald fire, towers on cliffs, dragons circling storms, knights with banners, mages throwing lightning, and something enormous sleeping beneath a black sea.

It was breathtaking. It was impossible. It looked like every fantasy paperback cover from the laundry room free shelf had exploded into reality.

“Asterfall is a vibrant realm of magic, monsters, kingdoms, prophecy, and growth-based class progression,” Seraphina recited. “As an off-world soul, you are entitled to one starting boon, one reincarnated body adjusted to local standards, fluency in the primary continental trade tongue, and a class selection from our heroic catalog.”

Another window appeared. Golden text scrolled in the air.

PLEASE SELECT STARTING CLASS
SWORD SAINT
ARCHMAGE
DIVINE HEALER
SHADOW ASSASSIN
BEAST TAMER
DRAGON KNIGHT
HOLY SUMMONER
RUNEBLADE
STORM MONK
— MORE OPTIONS —

Milo stared.

For the first time since the vending machine had made theological demands, something like excitement stirred in him.

“So I get magic.”

“Potentially.”

“And a new life.”

“Yes.”

“With health insurance?”

Seraphina blinked.

“With… healing potions?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is often more effective.”

“Do they cover dental?”

“Teeth can be regrown by mid-tier restoration magic.”

Milo nodded slowly. “Okay. Strong start.”

Seraphina’s smile became genuine for a moment. “Most souls ask whether they can become invincible.”

“Can I?”

“No.”

“Then I’m asking practical questions.”

She tapped the clipboard. The class list shimmered.

“Given your life history, I recommend Divine Healer or Shield Guardian. Your karmic profile shows patience, responsibility, conflict mediation, emergency repair under pressure, and a tendency to help people who do not deserve it.”

“That’s not a tendency. That’s property management.”

“There is also Sword Saint. Very popular. Clean progression path, excellent survivability, dramatic cloak compatibility.”

Milo looked at the glowing words. Sword Saint pulsed invitingly, edged in gold. He pictured himself standing on a mountain with a blade shining in both hands, cloak snapping, not a single tenant asking whether a clogged garbage disposal counted as a building-wide emergency.

It was a good image.

Too good.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

Seraphina’s halo skipped a rotation.

“Catch?”

“There’s always a catch. If a glowing window offers you Sword Saint for free, either everyone gets one or the sword has an adjustable interest rate.”

“Asterfall is dangerous,” she admitted. “Selected souls are often drawn into conflicts appropriate to their class.”

“Meaning if I choose Sword Saint, people with swords try to kill me.”

“Heroically.”

“If I choose Archmage?”

“Ancient curses, rival towers, mana catastrophes, occasional extradimensional scrutiny.”

“Shadow Assassin?”

“Knives.”

“Just knives?”

“So many knives.”

Milo exhaled through his nose.

He was dead. That was still sinking in. His body was under a vending machine in the lobby of Ashwick Arms, probably leaking energy drink onto tile while Derek from 4B wondered if he could get a refund. Tomorrow, Mrs. Alvarez in 2A would find out and leave flowers by the office door. The corporate office would send an email saying they were “deeply saddened” before asking who had the master keys. His apartment would be packed by strangers.

A life spent fixing other people’s emergencies had ended inside one.

He should have felt furious.

Mostly, he felt tired.

“Do I have to pick a combat class?” he asked.

Seraphina tilted her head. “Most off-world souls do. It increases survival probability.”

“What about something normal?”

“Normal?”

“Like… innkeeper. Carpenter. Farmer. Guy Who Sleeps Eight Hours.”

“That last one is not a class.”

“It should be.”

She gave a soft laugh, then caught herself, as if divine staff were not supposed to find mortals funny.

“There are civilian classes, but they are rarely offered as boons. The reincarnation package is meant to provide exceptional growth.”

“I don’t need exceptional,” Milo said. “Exceptional gets phone calls at three in the morning.”

Seraphina studied him for a long moment. Around them, glowing clerks processed souls by the thousands. Somewhere, a trumpet sounded and a newly reborn hero shouted, “I choose Dragon Knight!” to polite applause.

“Milo Bell,” she said softly, “you spent twelve years maintaining buildings you did not own for people who barely saw you. You answered calls during holidays. You repaired heaters during blizzards. You negotiated with angry tenants, indifferent owners, and city inspectors with clipboards sharp enough to cut glass. You died attempting to retrieve a drink for a man who texted you ‘bro’ at three in the morning.”

“Please don’t put that on my tombstone.”

“Why would you not want strength in your next life?”

Milo looked back at the class list. Sword Saint. Archmage. Divine Healer. Each word shone like a promise. Each also felt like a trap made of expectations.

“I want a place that’s mine,” he said.

The words surprised him with how quickly they came.

Seraphina’s expression changed.

Milo stared past her at the impossible world in the window. “Not a kingdom. Not a destiny. Just… a door I can lock. A roof I know won’t leak unless it’s my fault. Maybe a courtyard. Good water pressure. Tenants who pay on time would be pushing it, but I’m dead, so I’m allowed to dream.”

The goddess did not smile this time.

Her halo slowed.

“That is a very dangerous wish in Asterfall.”

“Owning property?”

“Owning anything.”

The flaming clipboard dimmed. Seraphina glanced over one shoulder, though there was nothing behind her except mist and endless desks.

“Asterfall is bound by ancient contracts. Land is power. Dominion is law. Kings draw strength from borders. Temples from consecrated ground. Dungeon cores from territory. Even monsters understand the weight of a claimed den.”

Milo raised an eyebrow. “So homeowners’ associations are worse there.”

“Infinitely.”

“Great.”

“There are classes related to stewardship,” she said carefully. “Estate Mage. Guild Factor. Fortress Warden. Sacred Architect.”

The list shifted. New options appeared beneath the heroic ones.

ADDITIONAL CLASSES
ESTATE MAGE
FORTRESS WARDEN
GUILD FACTOR
SACRED ARCHITECT
DUNGEON LEASEHOLDER
MANOR STEWARD
— ADMINISTRATIVE OPTIONS LOCKED —

Milo squinted at the final line.

“What are administrative options?”

“Nothing.”

That was the fastest answer she had given.

“Seraphina.”