Rewind to the night I died. Time to check in on our good pal Chuck—back when he still had his dignity, and no idea he'd be partially responsible for turning me into... this.

  Yeah, yeah. I know—flashback and multiple points of view! The rough equivalent of finding raisins in your cookie. But tough luck. You're getting one. So, suck it up, Buttercup.

  Agent Charles “Chuck” Henderson had precisely two regrets that evening.

  First, he’d forgotten his wedding anniversary—again—and his wife’s promise to “reenact her favorite episode of true crime” when he got home was delivered with just enough gleeful menace to leave him genuinely unsure whether she was joking or not.

  Second, he’d agreed to babysit a brown cardboard box while posing as a delivery man, blending in with the excessively polite locals of Fargo, North Dakota—a place so neighborly it felt practically Canadian—for a covert drop of some terrifying concoction destined for top-secret bunkers that “didn’t exist”. He regretted accepting this mission for several reasons: it was a menial errand beneath his qualifications, it forced him to work overtime and endure a trip to the terribly polite corporate office, and, worst of all, he’d bungled it entirely.

  Now one of humanity’s most dangerous secrets lay somewhere in the Midwest, threatening to turn the entire region into a cosmic barbecue.

  If asked which predicament frightened him more, the job or his wife, he wouldn’t have had an immediate answer.

  He stared at the text on his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. While he read it, he couldn’t help but hear the overly friendly tone of the home office Missions Op.

  “Sorry for bothering yous, and we super appreciate the gift of soap and all, but was wondering when we might expect the Property code name 11704B? No rush or anything. Sure you’re busy. But if you don’t mind, could you send us a message back? Thanks.”

  Lightning flickered against the motel’s neon sign and a soft mist of rain covered the world. He’d retraced his steps all the way back to this dingy parking lot.

  It wasn’t his fault really, misplacing the Property. He had been searching on his phone “anniversary gifts that say ‘I love you,’ ‘I’m stupid,’ and ‘I definitely planned this more than ten minutes ago.’” Nothing had seemed right. Live ferrets, crocheted cozies, pillow in the shape of a banana… that last one might work.

  It was barely his fault when his brown box got swapped with that of another, “All-Natural, 100% Vegan, Cruelty-Free, Gluten-Free, Animal-Friendly, Organic Soap.” In hindsight, the big cartoon bubble winking at him should have raised a red flag.

  He remembered handing off that box to his contact, who frowned at the suspiciously cheery claims of “ethically hand-stirred synergy.”

  Chuck’s gut had twisted in warning, yet he never cracked the lid. Not long after, Corporate’s polite inquiry about the missing Property set off the alarm bells that were now clanging in his skull.

  The door to the motel room near Chuck’s drop-off splintered inward under his boot, crashing against the wall with a dramatic flair that would’ve been satisfying if not for the smell. The air hit him like a lavender-scented sledgehammer, thick with notes of citrus, sandalwood, and a faint whiff of despair.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Inside, a man and woman in matching aprons stood at a crooked folding table, funnels and plastic jugs spread out like props from a suspicious high-school chemistry project. Harsh overhead lighting glinted off a small mountain of generic dish soap bottles—cheap stuff all lined up in neat little rows, awaiting fancier labels that promised “Hand-Sculpted Fulfillment” or “Extra Humanity Infused.” Steam rolled off hot plates in the corner.

  They both froze, mid-siphon, each gripping a dripping funnel as if it might protect them. A sticky dribble of pastel-pink liquid pattered onto the stained carpet.

  “Whoa—hey!” the man yelped, raising both hands, funnel still in one of them. “I didn’t do it! It was her idea!”

  He winced as the woman slugged him in the arm. “You lying son of a—”

  “Shut it!” Chuck barked. He stepped forward, letting the door swing behind him with a squeal.

  He tore open the first box on a nearby stack, releasing a surge of lemon-verbena fumes that stung his eyes. Plastic bottles with pompous leaf motifs toppled out, skidding across the floor as he tore open box after box.

  “Where is it?” he growled, rummaging like a spoiled kid on Christmas morning.

  The pair exchanged stricken glances, not entirely sure if he was after a secret stash of illicit substances or a missing poodle.

  “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman managed, voice wobbling. “It’s just soap.”

  He tore into the last carton with the look of a man who already knew he wasn’t going to like what he found. When it, too, turned out to be nothing but an avalanche of overly perfumed soap bottles, Chuck sank to the floor in the corner like a deflated balloon, just this side of a nervous breakdown. His head thunked softly against the wall as he muttered, mostly to himself, “If it’s not here, I just don’t know…” He stared blankly at the chaos of broken boxes and frothy puddles before finally groaning, “I’m screwed.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint plop of dripping soap and Chuck’s soul quietly exiting through the soles of his shoes. Then the woman hesitated, her expression shifting somewhere between pity and reluctant helpfulness.

  “We, uh…” she started, carefully, like someone poking a wounded bear. “We had more earlier.”

  Chuck’s head snapped up so fast you’d think someone had dangled salvation in front of him on a stick. “Earlier?”

  She nodded, glancing nervously at her partner before continuing. “Yeah. We shipped ’em out this afternoon. For a new client. Downtown.”

  Hope ignited in Chuck’s chest like a single match in a pitch-black cave. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him upright. “Where?” His voice was low, steady—the tone of a man barely holding on.

  The man scurried over to a battered laptop that looked like it had been rescued from the 1990s and started typing with the fervor of someone hacking a mainframe. “Perky Beans.”

  “Perky Beans? What the hell is that?” Chuck said, standing up so fast the chair protested with a squeak. He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing at it like he could scrape off the lingering residue of lavender and whatever passed for his pride. His thumb found his temple, kneading slow circles, as if he could massage away a lifetime of bad decisions with enough pressure.

  “It’s a café. Here,” the man said, scribbling the name and address onto a torn sticker decorated with a grinning cartoon bubble and the words, “Soap you have a great day!” beneath its cheerful thumbs-up.

  He took the sticker, nodded, and turned to leave. Three steps later, he stopped dead and pivoted, fixing the two apron-clad “entrepreneurs” with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.

  “One more thing,” he said.

  They froze, the smell of lavender somehow doubling, thick in the steam-filled air.

  “It’s my anniversary today,” he said flatly. “Either of you have any gift ideas?”

  The pair exchanged a glance, a slow, wordless conversation heavy with judgment, the kind that said, “We may be peddling soap, but who's the real villain here?”

  Chuck waved it off with a grunt. “Forget it.”

  He spun toward the door, but his eyes caught on a stack of neatly wrapped bottles perched on a shelf. The label read Indulgence Lux Bath Foam in delicate script. He took a bottle.

  Halfway to the exit, he hesitated again, glancing back. “You got any gift wrap?”

  Both of them shook their heads in unison, expressions flat. He nodded once before finally stepping out the door.

  Soap in hand, he stepped into the cool air, the sharp bite of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume clinging to him like a second skin. The rain picked up. Yeah, this was going to be one hell of a long night.