Saturday dawned overcast and slightly haunted.

  Back at the guild hall, formerly the civic records annex, now home to mildly cursed office furniture and at least one feral fax sprite—the members of Guild Paperjam Task Force had agreed to take the weekend off. Mostly. “Off” in the same way a fire drill is technically a vacation.

  “Spectral HR’s due to drop by,” Tessa announced as she handed out mugs of ghost-filtered tea. “They want to verify we aren’t violating afterlife labor regulations.”

  “Can ghosts unionize?” Bjorn asked, already halfway through a suspiciously glowing bagel.

  “They can if you leave the breakroom Ouija board on ‘HR Inquiry Mode,’” Chortlebane the floating teapot muttered.

  Nobody, nervously adjusting his rogue hat, sank into a sagging beanbag. “So this is normal?”

  “Define normal,” Jeff replied from his hook on the coat rack. He rattled gently in his canvas bag-body. “I once got audited by a centaur with a monocle because I misfiled a ghost’s pension.”

  A sudden bang echoed down the corridor.

  Elion emerged from the records hallway, looking offended. “Someone has opened the ‘DO NOT OPEN (seriously)’ cabinet.”

  Everyone turned slowly to Nobody.

  He shrank under their gaze. “I was looking for snacks?”

  From the hallway came a low groan and the sound of sentient paperwork dragging itself free.

  “I think you found the complaints backlog from 1523,” Tessa said, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. She snatched a stapler from a cursed filing drawer—it was glowing with containment glyphs and humming with quiet menace.

  The cabinet labeled DO NOT OPEN (seriously) creaked ominously.

  Bjorn, ever helpful, opened it anyway.

  A flurry of ancient complaint scrolls erupted like furious bees, each one scrawled in aggressive cursive. The air filled with the scent of mildew and passive-aggression.

  “HOSTILE FORM OVERLOAD!” Jeff yelped, trying to zip himself shut.

  One scroll shrieked, “INAPPROPRIATE USE OF MIRAGE IN THE BREAK ROOM!”

  Another slapped Elion across the face with the force of a tiny, papery vendetta. “YOU DIDN’T CC HR!”

  “They’re citing clauses that don’t exist anymore!” Tessa yelled, deflecting a screaming requisition form with a filing shield. “They’re obsolete but petty!”

  The battle was short, mercifully, because the complaints were too outdated to be legally actionable.

  Still, several self-righteous memos refused to go quietly.

  “Fall back!” Tessa called. “Let the bard handle it!”

  Elion stepped forward, took a dramatic breath, and let loose a note so operatic and dwarvish that the scrolls curled in on themselves in embarrassment.

  “Cease and Desist!” he sang, rolling the syllables like thunder across a marble lobby.

  Several memos combusted midair, trailing glitter and shame.

  One lonely form muttered “...but my grievance...” before disintegrating.

  Silence returned. Jeff unzipped cautiously.

  Bjorn gave a thumbs up. “That went well.”

  Tessa adjusted her glasses. “I never want to hear the phrase ‘unfiled socks in shared drawer’ again.”

  “I kept the stapler,” Jeff whispered. It purred.

  Afterward, they gathered in the main room for what was optimistically labeled Team-Building Brunch.

  Bjorn grilled mushrooms with a torch. Chortlebane brewed double-caffeinated espresso with alarming speed. Jeff arranged forks using his drawstring and a lot of determination.

  Nobody sat at the edge of the table, eyes darting to every creak of the floorboards.

  “You always this jumpy?” Elion asked, slicing a croissant with theatrical precision.

  “I once triggered a ghostly NDA and couldn’t speak for a month,” Nobody said. “Now I assume everything’s cursed.”

  “Healthy instinct,” Tessa nodded. “That’s why I keep a fireproof filing cabinet of backup plans.”

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  “I keep snacks,” said Bjorn proudly, pulling a meat bun from his boot.

  “Is that... safe?” asked Elion.

  “It's warm.”

  Chortlebane floated by with a clipboard. “As acting Guild morale officer—self-appointed—I demand we play at least one ridiculous icebreaker.”

  “Oh no,” groaned Tessa.

  “Oh yes,” replied the teapot.

  They sat cross-legged around a table fortified by stale donuts and ghost-proof coasters. Chortlebane hovered above it, clipboard in handle, acting as self-appointed game host.

  “Welcome to File or False!” the teapot declared in a voice like a bubbling kettle. “The game where you file a fact, or lie through your forms!”

  Tessa sighed. “Why is this laminated?”

  “For drama.”

  Bjorn cracked his knuckles. “Let’s do this. Hit me.”

  Chortlebane turned to him with mock-seriousness. “First round: Bjorn. I once mistook a banshee for a barmaid. File or False?”

  Elion snorted. “False. There’s no way even Bjorn’s that dense.”

  “Excuse me?” Bjorn puffed. “That is absolutely filed. We’re engaged now. She screams compliments.”

  Nobody blinked. “You’re dating a banshee?”

  Bjorn shrugged. “I like loud women.”

  Tessa rubbed her temples. “I’m going to need a sidebar with fate.”

  “Jeff,” Chortlebane continued. “I once smuggled an entire printing press in a trench coat.”

  “False,” Elion said.

  “False,” Tessa echoed.

  Jeff rattled proudly. “Filed. I was the trench coat.”

  There was a pause.

  “I have… so many questions,” said Nobody.

  “I don’t,” muttered Tessa. “I’ve stopped expecting answers.”

  Chortlebane floated to the next player. “Tessa. I’ve memorized forty-two obscure regulations on curse-resistant ink.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “Obviously filed,” said Bjorn.

  “Absolutely filed,” Elion added. “I've heard she quoted subsection twelve at a demon once.”

  Tessa gave a small, proud nod. “That demon deserved it.”

  “Elion,” said the teapot. “My singing once dissolved an entire wall.”

  “False,” said Nobody, hopeful.

  “Filed,” said Tessa without looking up. “I was there. We got fined.”

  Elion crossed his arms. “I told them the wall was emotionally vulnerable.”

  “Final round: Nobody,” said Chortlebane, who had dimmed his glow for dramatic effect. “I secretly write poetry.”

  Nobody froze. “Uh—uh, false?”

  “Too slow!” Jeff chimed in.

  “Filed.” Chortlebane declared, floating the paper in dramatic slow-motion.

  Nobody groaned and put his head on the table. “I regret everything.”

  Bjorn grinned. “You got any tragic odes about staplers?”

  “NO.”

  Tessa smirked. “New task for Monday: Poetry bulletin board.”

  “Please no.”

  Elion raised a glass of haunted orange juice. “To adventures ahead. May our paperwork be minimal and our drama maximal!”

  “To Paperjam Task Force!” they chorused, laughter echoing through the semi-haunted walls.

  Even Nobody smiled. Briefly.

  That’s when the Spectral HR team arrived.

  Two translucent figures in pinstriped robes and hovering clipboards phased cleanly through the wall. One had spectral bifocals; the other was radiating mild administrative disappointment.

  “THIS IS A COMPLIANCE AUDIT,” the first intoned, voice echoing like it had reverb settings from beyond the grave.

  “Do you have proper haunt insurance?” asked the second, eyeing a scorch mark on the ceiling with professional dismay.

  “We have receipts,” Tessa said calmly, producing a thick sheaf of crinkled forms, three color-coded tabs, and one blessed paperweight humming with bureaucratic righteousness.

  The ghosts blinked in tandem, slow and ominous.

  A tense ten minutes followed.

  Bjorn, sweating slightly, held out a tray. “Would you care for a ghost-muffin? They're gluten-free and existentially vague.”

  Jeff rattled helpfully. “I can offer a discounted rate on cursed ergonomic pen holders. Ethereal compatibility guaranteed.”

  Elion struck a noble pose and began serenading them in Dwarvish opera:“Bylaw siiiix, paragraph threeee, states Sunday forms are non-compulsoryyyy—”

  Nobody tried to disappear behind the potted ficus.

  The auditors scribbled something on glowing forms in the air. One ghost frowned thoughtfully. The other looked at Tessa’s stack, nodded once, and vanished.

  The auditors scribbled something on glowing forms in the air. One ghost frowned thoughtfully.“This is… surprisingly alphabetical,” it murmured.

  The second ghost hovered ominously. “Section 8, Sub-Clause Spooky: Filing while haunted requires spectral countersignature.”

  Tessa, unfazed, slid a glowing slip across the table. “Signed by three poltergeists and a certified medium.”

  The ghost blinked. “Oh. Well then.”

  Bjorn leaned toward Jeff and whispered, “Is it a good sign when the ghosts are confused?”

  Jeff rustled thoughtfully. “Depends on the tax bracket.”

  One of the ghosts floated toward Nobody, who was now pretending to be part of the wallpaper.“Name?” it asked coldly.“N-Nobody,” he stammered.The ghost scribbled.

  “Suspicious.”

  The other ghost examined Tessa’s stack again, then nodded gravely. “Clause 13B: Blessed Be the Bureaucrat and Sub-Clause 7C: Thou Shalt Not Underestimate a Guild with Labeled Tabs.”

  With a faint whoosh and the smell of lavender toner, they were gone.

  “I think we passed?” Tessa ventured.

  A slip of spectral parchment materialized in the air, drifting gently down like the world’s most ominous confetti.

  Compliance Status: Adequately Absurd.

  GUILD FIELD REPORT ADDENDUM

  Filed by: T. Quillgrave, Provisional Leader

  Location: Temporary Guild Hall (The One With the Haunted Filing Cabinet)

  Mission Type: Internal Audit Interruption / Weekend Bonding Initiative

  Recovered Items:

  Compliance slip (Status: Adequately Absurd)

  Several spectral HR forms (partially singed)

  One stabilizing blessed paperweight

  Dwarvish Opera Libretto (annotated)

  Ghost-muffin recipe (experimental)

  Casualties:

  One haunted kettle’s self-esteem

  Jeff’s hopes of selling haunted ergonomic supplies

  Elion’s dignity (he sang in three registers at once)

  Nobody’s remaining nerve

  Notable Events:

  Spectral HR surprise visit

  Filing cabinet labeled "DO NOT OPEN (Seriously)" continues to hum ominously

  Successful round of File or False

  Guild bonding achieved through shared panic and muffins

  Personal Note

  I've learned that even spectral auditors can be bribed with proper paperwork, muffins, and obscure sub-clauses. This team is absurd. But also—effective.

  Still not opening that cabinet.Discovered: Friendship may be technically compliant with guild regulations.

  Reminder: Never trust a filing cabinet labeled “Do Not Open (Seriously)”.

  Also: We are not discussing the ghost-muffins incident further. Ever.

  Next weekend: Bring stronger ink wards. And maybe more snacks.