The Guild Headquarters in Bureaucracy Basin was a three-story fortress of polished stone, reinforced filing cabinets, and passive-aggressive signage. Somewhere between the Department of Applied Mild Hexes and the Snack Procurement Office sat Desk 13F, also known as Tessa Virellia's Personal Purgatory.

  She sat there now, eye twitching.

  "Why," she hissed, stabbing a quill into Form Q-88, "does this dungeon report have seven appendices, two of which are just illustrations of Bjorn punching coffee monsters?"

  Jeff the backpack sat politely on the corner of the desk. "He labeled it 'art therapy,'" he offered.

  "And this one? Form 73B?" Tessa held up another parchment. "Filed by Nobody and signed with a literal blood smudge and a doodle of a lizard eating a sandwich."

  "Technically accurate," said Nobody from the shadows.

  "None of these are acceptable submissions!" Tessa snapped, standing so fast that Jeff toppled over and let out a burp.

  Bjorn leaned in the doorframe, chewing something that might've once been a ration. "Maybe the real form was the healing we filed along the way."

  Tessa hurled a paperweight at him.

  Meanwhile, Elion had transformed the nearby coat rack into a makeshift harp and was playing a brooding tune titled Tragedy in B Minor (The Scalding of the Bard).

  "I can't do this anymore," Tessa muttered, pacing. "My whole life is ink stains and magical liability waivers. I have a master's in Runic Compliance and a minor in Aggressive Typing!"

  Chortlebane hovered nearby in his teapot cradle. "The Guild must document all anomalies. Or the anomalies start documenting us."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A sudden metallic whisper tickled the room.

  Tessa froze. "Did anyone else hear that?"

  The whisper came again.

  sssssshhhhhiiiiinnnneeeeee....

  Everyone turned toward the trash can.

  It was shaking.

  "Nope," said Bjorn. "Absolutely not."

  "It's back," whispered Elion. "The cursed bin. I knew it wasn’t gone. I dreamed of paperclips."

  The trash can flipped its lid. Out crawled a small pile of animated paperwork, their corner staples twitching like mandibles.

  Jeff screamed.

  Chortlebane gasped. "The Forbidden Forms!"

  "The what now?" Tessa snapped.

  "Arcane documentation corrupted by the Elders of Filing Past. They auto-duplicate and attach themselves to anything vaguely administrative. Including your soul."

  The pile of forms unfolded into a flapping swarm, fluttering toward Tessa.

  "They've sensed your rage," Chortlebane added.

  "Bjorn! Smash them!" Tessa shouted.

  Bjorn pulled out a blunt training sword (standard issue for paperwork incidents) and started swatting.

  "There's too many!" he cried. "They're forming a flowchart!"

  Elion began playing a counter-charm: Nocturne in D Sharp (Decline and Initial).

  Nobody threw a smoke bomb. The room filled with fog and the smell of very tired pine.

  Tessa yanked open a drawer, grabbed an Emergency Document Neutralizer (a large stamp that read REJECTED in infernal), and began slapping pages mid-air.

  "Take that! And that! And that!"

  One form tried to hide behind a pen. She stamped it anyway.

  A moment later, the fog cleared. The papers crumpled into harmless ash.

  Jeff coughed. "Well. That escalated."

  Chortlebane whistled. "I haven’t seen that much raw paperwork suppression since the Great Filing Frenzy of '98."

  Tessa, hair a mess and glasses askew, collapsed into her chair.

  "I need a vacation. Or a coma."

  Nobody emerged from a drawer. "There are rumors of a tropical dungeon with no forms and bottomless punch."

  "I don't trust anything without at least one liability clause," she muttered.

  Then her desk drawer rattled.

  "Oh gods."

  Bjorn peeked inside.

  A single map slithered out. A dungeon map. Unfiled. Untagged. Unsanctioned.

  "It’s a rogue cartograph," Chortlebane whispered. "Those were banned after the labyrinth incident."

  Tessa snapped.

  "THAT'S IT!" she yelled, standing atop her chair. "I am done playing nice with paperwork! Bjorn, get your axe! Elion, warm up a charm! Jeff, find me Form 99-X: Authorization for Reckless Map Pursuit!"

  The team stared at her.

  She threw on her field cloak.

  "We are tracking this dungeon. We are filing it properly. And if one more piece of cursed stationery flutters within fifty feet of me, I will teach it what happens to documents that defy Bureaucratic Order!"

  Jeff saluted. "Form 99-X secured and emotionally stabilized."

  Tessa grinned manically.

  "Team. We're going rogue. But legally."

  The unfiled map quivered, glowing faintly.

  Adventure called.

  So did at least three guild auditors.

  But Tessa didn’t care.

  She had a clipboard, a team, and a righteous vendetta against paper.

  The dungeon didn’t stand a chance.

  I’d like to personally apologize to anyone currently employed in middle management or dungeon administration. You’re the real heroes, and I hope no cursed filing cabinets whisper your name at night.

  This chapter was brought to you by three strong coffees, one minor spreadsheet-related meltdown, and the burning question: “What if bureaucracy fought back?”

  Also, if anyone knows how to remove a Form 99-X that’s latched onto a soul, please message me. It’s currently making sarcastic comments every time I open Google Docs.

  Next time: rogue maps, questionable cartography, and more opportunities to disappoint guild HR.

  Keep your stamps infernal and your pens uncursed.

  —The Author (currently hiding from an animated stapler)