"Just another night, Becky," she whispered, her breath hitching.

A wet, slapping sound echoed from the hallway. Slap. Drag. Slap. Drag.

Rebecca realized with a jolt of horror that the sigil wasn't on the bodies. It was etched into the palm of her own hand, glowing a bruised purple. The "free download" of her soul was complete; the mortuary wasn't her workplace anymore. It was her cage.

She peeled back the sheet on the gurney. Nothing. She checked the woman in cold storage. Nothing.