Fresh out of high school, I inherited my father Gabriel Hale’s mantle and became a Soul Ferryman—a psychopomp guiding the dead.

Because the job required me to roam late at night, I disguised myself as a ride-share driver.

That night, I received an order straight from the Underworld.

The message urged me to act quickly: I had to deliver the soul before the Gate of the Underworld closed, or else the deceased might turn into a vengeful spirit.

I picked up the target’s spirit, but on the way back, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom suddenly shot out from a corner.

I didn’t have time to brake—I slammed right into it.

“You blind, kid? Don’t you know how to drive?”

Time was pressing, so I didn’t bother arguing over whose fault it was. I was ready to pay compensation just to settle it.

But the other driver refused to let it go.

“You broke loser! Do you even know what car this is? Ten grand? You think you can fob me off with that pocket change?”

I pulled out my phone, ready to call the police—but the female spirit in my back seat spoke up, her words chilling me to the bone.

“I’m the one he killed in that crash…”

In my line of work, money was never the problem.

A standard Rolls-Royce Phantom? My family’s garage wouldn’t even bother parking it. What was he so proud of?

“Hey, young man, I’m talking to you! Why do you keep glancing at the back seat?”

Seeing the spirit’s aura glowing hotter and redder, my own temper spiked.

“Shut up! If I lose time here, neither of us will make it through the night alive!”

My warning didn’t faze him.

“There’s nobody in your back seat, kid. Quit trying to spook me.”

He yanked open my door and dragged me out.

“Look at this car properly. You hit a Rolls-Royce Phantom worth over a million dollars! And you think ten grand cuts it? Dream on!”

He took me for just another broke driver in my twenties and dismissed me completely.

“Sir, I had the right of way. I was going straight—you swerved. I’m already being generous offering you money. What more do you want?”

“Call the cops? Ha! Kid, even if they show up, it’ll all fall on you.”

He leaned in closer, breath thick with alcohol.

“You really don’t know whose car you hit. Around all of Chicago, everyone knows Tony Moretti’s ride.”

Just then, a scantily dressed woman stepped out of his passenger seat.

“Baby, don’t waste time on him. Look at him—probably doesn’t even recognize our hood ornament.”

“Guys like him, running rides at night, wouldn’t know the name Tony Moretti—the Midwest kingpin.”

I narrowed my eyes, smiling coldly.

“You won’t let me call the cops… Could it be you were drunk driving—and already killed someone tonight?”

My words struck home. Tony snapped, shoving me hard.

“Whether I drank or not is none of your damn business. Call your insurance and pay up. If you keep yapping, I’ll make sure you can’t survive in Chicago.”

I’d spent years dealing with the dead. I’d never even heard of this so-called Tony Moretti.

If I weren’t pressed for time, I’d have shown him what a psychopomp could really do.

“I don’t care if you’re Tony, Vince, or whoever. I don’t give a damn.”

“I’ve still got a passenger. Move your car.”

The bystanders watching the commotion gasped.

“Holy shit, this kid’s got balls—he hit Tony Moretti’s car and dares to talk back?”

“Tony runs half the Midwest crime districts. Even the cops don’t mess with him after midnight.”

“Poor bastard. Wrong car to hit. Even if he doesn’t die tonight, he’ll be skinned alive.”

As the whispers grew louder, Tony’s grin widened.

“Kid, if you want to run, at least make up a better excuse. What passenger? There’s no one in your back seat.”

But I noticed the spirit’s aura flaring redder. If I stalled any longer, she’d lose control.

“Tony Moretti, right?”

“If you value your life, you’ll kneel at my rear bumper and knock your head to the ground forty-nine times—or else…”

“Or else what, punk?” Tony rolled up his sleeves and charged at me, reeking of booze.

“Dodge again, I’ll kill you!”

I didn’t strike back—I only slipped out of reach. Not because I feared him, but because of my father Gabriel Hale’s warning when I first entered the trade:

“As a ferryman, you guide souls. Never entangle yourself in mortal grudges.”

A psychopomp never raises a hand against the living lightly. If we do, the result is always fatal.

Vince Moretti, Tony’s lackey, lunged at me with wild swings. Every punch missed, only enraging him further.

“You bastard, still dodging? Fine! You just wait.”

He pulled out his phone right in front of me.

“18th Street, Chicago—bring the boys and the hardware. Now!”

Meanwhile, some sympathetic drivers dragged me aside.

“Kid, you’d better run. Once his men arrive, you won’t walk away.”

“Yeah, his crew are real monsters. You’re on your own—you’ll get crushed.”

“You’re too young to throw your life away over pride.”

I was baffled.

He was the drunk driver, yet they expected me to run? Just because he was some mob boss, he could defy every law?

And what about the college girl in my back seat—the one he’d killed tonight? Was her life worthless?

My fists clenched until my knuckles popped.

“Calling in backup, huh?”

“Fine. But until you apologize to my passenger, I’m not going anywhere.”

Tony burst out laughing.

“Didn’t think I’d meet such a crazy bastard tonight. All right, I’ll show you exactly what the Morettis can do in the Midwest.”

I ignored him and slid back into my car.

My defiance earned me a grateful look from the spirit.

“My name is Emily Carter. Today was my twentieth birthday.”

No wonder her resentment burned so strong. It had been her birthday when she died.

I began to chant the calming incantation, trying to ease the spirit’s fury.

Tony Moretti, however, had grabbed a steel pipe and started smashing my car.

“You still putting on an act? I’ll smash your ride to pieces!”

Dozens of swings later, the only mark on my car was a faint scratch.

The scene should have unnerved him—but instead, he grew more frenzied.

He gunned his Phantom, ramming it straight into my driver’s side.

The impact spun my world. Even with spiritual protection, the door crumpled inward.

If I’d been in an ordinary sedan, I’d be crippled—if not dead.

I staggered out, testing my limbs. Just numbness in my leg—nothing fatal.

Tony stepped out grinning, gold teeth flashing, then lazily rolled down his window.

“You dare dent my car? I’ll run you down myself!”

My anger finally snapped. I charged at him with clenched fists—only to stumble and collapse before reaching him.

Pain seared my ankle. Blood seeped down. Must’ve been cut earlier.

The crowd of onlookers rushed to call an ambulance. But Vince leaned on the horn and roared:

“Anyone who helps him is crossing Tony Moretti. Think carefully!”

At once, the phones lowered. Silence.

Tony swaggered toward me.

“Where’s that tough guy act now, kid? Crawling on the ground already?”

I glared up at him through gritted teeth.

“You just tried to run me over, Tony. You really aren’t afraid of death, are you?”

He smirked.

“So what if I did? I’ll break your legs next—leave you crawling forever.”

I pointed at the traffic camera overhead.

“There’s surveillance here. Everything you just did was recorded. Let’s see what the police say.”

Tony burst out laughing.

“Surveillance? This street’s mine. One call and the footage is gone.”

He dialed.

“Yeah, it’s Tony. Wipe all tonight’s feeds on 18th Street.”

The woman draped on his arm smirked down at me.

“See? The evidence is gone. Go ahead, prove my man ran you over.”

She tossed her hair, sneering.

“We told you to take the payout. Instead you crossed Tony Moretti. Now look at you. Next time, open your eyes—his car isn’t one just anyone can touch.”

I’d grown up reckless, never knowing when to back down.

At eighteen, I became a psychopomp, dealing with death daily.

I’d never learned the rules of the living world—or how to bow my head.